


In the Forests of the Night

by BrighteyedJill



Series: Love's the Burning Boy [2]
Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, M/M, Petrellicest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-30
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 16:35:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 69,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/611906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/pseuds/BrighteyedJill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(This is the sequel to <a href="http://brighteyed-jill.livejournal.com/2113.html">Love’s the Burning Boy</a>. I suggest you read it first, but if you can’t, you can probably catch on pretty quickly.) If you can’t change the past, you have to live with the present and work toward a better future. Nathan attempts to lead, Peter finds a new path, and Mohinder has to decide what side he’s on. Hiro and his team try to bring all the pieces together while other special people are working towards a different end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beta’d by the fabulous [](http://redandglenda.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://redandglenda.livejournal.com/)**redandglenda**. Remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
>  **Spoilers:** Through the end of Season 1. This future fic’s past only follows canon through that point, so anything happening in the current season never happened for these characters.  
> 

Micah thought they were going North. Because that was the big dipper, probably. Wasn’t the North Star part of the Big Dipper? Or something? He’d always been a city kid, so he had no idea how that stuff worked. In the seat beside him, Molly Walker sat in silence, holding Micah’s hand and staring straight ahead. She didn’t seem in the mood to talk. Instead, Micah turned his attention to the two adults sitting in the front of the SUV.

 

“Where are we going?” he asked.

 

“Someplace safe,” replied the man in the passenger seat. He turned halfway around in his seat to look at Micah. “I’m Matt Parkman, by the way.”

 

“Officer Parkman saved my life,” Molly announced, a little starry-eyed.

 

“Well…” Matt blushed, and it was only by supreme force of will that Micah avoided rolling his eyes. “You can call me Matt. And this is Lara.” He jerked his chin toward the woman next to him.

 

“Hey.” Lara waved from the driver’s seat, but didn’t take her eyes off the road.

 

Micah regarded Matt, and Molly’s continued smiling at Matt, unhappily. “So you guys came to that place just for us?” he asked.

 

“Yep,” said Matt. “A rescue mission, kind of.”

 

“Why just us?” Micah asked, and smiled to himself when Molly turned, wide-eyed, to look at him. “I mean, there are a hundred-some kids in that facility.”

 

“Not that we’re not grateful,” Molly said quickly, narrowing her eyes at Micah in an unmistakable mind-your-manners rebuke.

 

“I promised your dad we’d get you back,” Lara broke in. For the moment, Micah forgot all about Molly. He looked up to meet Lara’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

 

“How do you know my dad?”

 

“We worked together,” she said. Micah thought she wanted to say more, but maybe not in front of the others. That was fine. He had long ago gotten used to the fact that information about his parents, especially concerning their whereabouts, could only be gained through patience and deception.

 

Molly broke the silence. “Is there a plan to get away from here?” She looked hopefully at Matt. “I mean, I’m sure there is. I just know that all the kids who’ve tried to run away… They’ve brought them back.” There was more than a little bitterness in her voice.

 

Micah tore his eyes away from Lara to pat Molly’s hand. “It wasn’t just you,” he said softly. “No one got out.”

 

“You tried to run away?” Matt asked. He sounded impressed. “That’s really brave.” Molly blushed, and Micah had the sudden urge to punch Matt in the face.

 

“They won’t find you this time,” Lara said firmly. “Not as long as you’re with me. I can’t make us invisible, but it’s the next best thing. No satellites can see us, no tracking devices will work, no infrared, no cell phone signals, and dogs can’t follow our scent.”

 

“Really?” Molly asked.

 

“Well, not that last one,” Lara said. “But the rest of it, yes.”

 

“Wow,” said Molly thoughtfully. “You’re kind of the opposite of me.”

 

“How’s that?” Lara asked.

 

“You hide people,” Molly explained. “I find them.”

 

Lara seemed to find the idea amusing. Micah noticed her white teeth flashing when she smiled. But her smile faded soon enough. “Well. Let’s hope it’s enough. We’ve still got a long trip ahead of us.”

 

“Where are we headed?” Micah asked.

 

“New York, little man,” said Lara. “New York.”  
********

 

 

It was hot. That was the first thing Gabriel realized as he came to. The air clung to his skin and stuck in his lungs, and he was sweating just lying down. It was darkish, too. Dusty sunlight filtered in from somewhere, but it took a moment to take stock of the space he was in: a little wooden room, rough walls with metal bars near the top running to a ceiling about ten feet up. One wall was perhaps a gate or a door; Gabriel could see it was meant to slide, but it looked as sturdy, as unmovable as the rest of the cell. He was lying on the cement floor, something scratchy poking him through his clothes. Gabriel realized when he looked down that it was straw.

 

“Hey,” came a voice from just above his head. It took Gabriel a minute to sort out the meaning of the word, since it sounded more like “haiy,” and he thought, for one wild moment, that he was in a foreign country. Then the voice said, “You awake?” and he realized that he was hearing a Southern accent. It had been a long time since he’d heard speech like that, and for a moment it caused him to flash back to his time in Texas.

 

“Yeah, he’s awake,” the voice said. “Hey, what’s your name?”

 

Gabriel sat up, and as he did so his head throbbed spectacularly. Lying down probably wouldn’t make it any better, though, so he looked up to find the source of this voice.

 

His inquisitor was a tallish man with an untidy shock of blond hair, peering through the bars at him from the neighboring room. The walls gave way to bars about five feet up, so all Sylar could see of him from here was his craggy face, pressed against the bars, staring down at him. “You speak the English, boy?” he asked.

 

“Where is this place?” Gabriel managed to choke out. His throat was so dry.

 

“Homeland Security Detention Facility 16C, Buford, Georgia,” the man said with a welcoming smile. “Nice, isn’t it? Used to be a horse barn.”

 

Gabriel gave his cell another look and realized that, yes, it could have been a horse stall. He would never have put that name to it himself, having never actually been in a barn, but he imagined that lingering pungent smell might be from the animals that once lived here.

 

“Yep, they’re pretty proud of this place. It’s one of just two places in the country that carries out disposal orders.” The man pointed in the direction of the cell’s door. “Room for two hundred, but no one stays here long.

 

Two hundred? Gabriel should be able to hear them all well enough to pick out individual heartbeats. He realized that he could hear people: low talking, sounds of movement, but that he couldn’t pick out anything very detailed. They must be keeping very quiet.

 

“They just now got you?” the blond man asked.

 

Gabriel blinked. “What?”

 

“It’s your first time in custody, yeah? Looks like you got a little trip to the vet.” He held up his own wrist to show a helix tattoo, then pointed at Gabriel’s arm. “Got fixed, did you?”

 

Confused, Gabriel looked down, and saw it: the black ink on the inside of his right wrist. The tattoo was a single curved line about an inch long, crossed once at the top, on the right, and twice near the bottom, on the left. The edges of it were an angry red. They must have done it when he was out. Done that, and… something else? Urgently, he reached for his powers, flicking through his awareness of his different powers as he would through a file of index cards. He tried to pick up the straw with his mind. It didn’t work. He stood and grabbed the metal bars of the stall door, trying to melt them: they stayed unmoved. Pulling his hands away in disgust, he tried to create a ball of radiant energy: nothing happened. They’d crippled him. Given him that drug. Mohinder’s wonder Cure. He wasn’t special any more.

 

The other man broke into his thoughts again. “What’d you do?”

 

“What?” Gabriel asked absently. He was still staring at his hands. His abilities were gone. He was back to being ordinary, useless, a failure.

 

“What’d you do, I said,” the other man said, more loudly this time, as if Gabriel was a little slow. “They don’t send people here for bein’ good.”

 

“I don’t know,” Gabriel said. The man snorted. Apparently Gabriel wasn’t a good liar. Sylar had been able to lie, to blend and shift like a chameleon, to adapt, to evolve. Maybe that was part of his power, and now, with that gone too, Gabriel would be stuck as stupid, normal, unable to change.

 

“Yeah, you must be a criminal,” the man concluded, looking him up and down. “Killer, are you?”

 

“I don’t think so,” Gabriel said, his attention not really on the question. Sylar would have ripped this man’s tongue out of his head. Or cut his throat to shut him up. Now Gabriel didn’t have that option. It was one thing to choose not to be Sylar… Now that things were different, it suddenly seemed very different to have Sylar taken away, to not have access to the power that made Sylar unstoppable.

 

“Me and Gus, we’re robbers,” the blonde man announced proudly. “Knocked over fourteen Kwik Marts in three states. Ain’t that right, Gus?” From further away, somewhere out of Gabriel’s sight, there came a bland, affirmative grunt. “You ever do anything like that?”

 

“No,” Gabriel said tersely. This stupid man, his stupid questions, were really starting to get annoying. He should be able to walk out of here whenever he wanted. There hadn’t been a prison that could hold him: not the fishbowl at Primatech, not Mohinder’s pathetic homemade restraints, not even death. Sylar could get out of anything, and he would get out of this.

 

“Well you must have done something,” the man said, his voice sharpening a little. “This is the end of the line, boy. ‘Disposal,’ that’s where you go from here.”

 

“What?” Gabriel looked up suddenly, his thoughts scattered.

 

“You stupid or something?” the blond asked with a sneer. “Disposal. The long walk. Put to sleep. Put down like a damn dog, boy. That’s what you’ve got to look forward to.”

 

“No,” Gabriel whispered, and he realized with growing horror the other side effect of losing his powers. It wasn’t enough that he was cut off from everything that made him special. It wasn’t enough that he was trapped. He could actually be killed. “No, no, no,” he repeated. Sylar hadn’t feared death, hadn’t need to fear it, for a long time. Now, the thought of being put to death brought bile up in Gabriel’s throat, and he sat down again, quickly.

 

“It’s okay,” the man said, now almost gentle. “Don’t be scared. They say it don’t hurt. They just give you a shot, and you go to sleep. Right Gus?” There came another bland grunt from somewhere beyond the neighboring cell.

 

“Right,” Gabriel said. He felt himself spiraling helplessly, coherent thought shutting down as he began to see the reality of his situation. The normal calm that he held around him like a shield was starting to crack. Suddenly he felt a desperate urge to act, to strike, the kind he would normally label as a Sylar impulse; Gabriel couldn’t prevent such tendencies, but he usually tried to ignore them. This time, though, the impulse seemed like a light in the darkness, banishing the pressing panic that had almost paralyzed Gabriel. That kind of drive could be useful now; would it really be so bad to give in to those Sylar instincts, just a little?

 

Fighting off the despair that had threatened to drown him a moment, ago, Gabriel looked around his cell with fresh eyes. He’d been good with his hands even before the power that came from Sylar. There had to be a way out of here somehow, and if Gabriel couldn’t find it, maybe he’d let Sylar try.  
*********

 

Jessica longed to push the gas pedal down further, but she settled for turning up the vintage rock and roll on the radio. It wasn’t that she was afraid of getting pulled over, but she didn’t feel like going to the trouble of getting another car or having to dispose of a body. Over the music, Jessica said, “I think that went rather well, all things considering.”

 

From the passenger seat, Candace snorted. “Well? I hope I never get to see your version of fucked-up.”

 

“Oh come on, Candace,” Jessica said breezily. “You can’t say that wasn’t fun.”

 

“I didn’t say it wasn’t fun. It’s just…” Candace shifted uncomfortably and turned to look out the window. “There were a lot of people.”

 

Jessica rolled her eyes. “No one recognized you, honey. I promise.”

 

“Thanks,” Candace snapped. They drove in silence for a moment. Then, “You didn’t tell me there’d be explosions.”

 

Jessica shrugged. “Why not? Add a little spice and confusion. You didn’t really want the Secret Service agents’ attention all to yourself, did you?”

 

“No,” Candace admitted.

 

Another few miles went by in silence. Jessica could tell that Candace wanted to say something, so she waited. Candace never shut up for long.

 

“You think they’ll come, now that we’ve done this?” she asked at last.

 

Jessica smiled. “Oh ye of little faith,” she said. “They’ll come.”

 

“So what do we do?” Candace asked.

 

“We wait and watch the fireworks,” Jessica replied, and thinking of that, she couldn’t resist letting the pedal drop, just a little, making the car jump ahead. “Then we’ll see what Hiro has to say for himself.”  
********

 

 

It had been a long ride back from Jersey, but Hiro wasn’t tired. Ando had slept some on the train, but Hiro had been content to stare out the window, holding the rolled-up painting in his lap and thinking. He thought that he could probably have teleported himself and Ando back, but he wasn’t sure. He didn’t want to push his powers too hard and end up somewhere—or somewhen— he didn’t want to be. Anyway, it was good to be traveling with Ando again, even if it did mean braving the crowded subway with both a painting case and a samurai sword shoved into one bag. For some reason, the streets of Manhattan seemed brighter today as they walked from the station to the loft. Hiro caught Ando grinning at him, realized that he’d been humming, and grinned in return. There was hope in the world again.

 

It was a quarter past nine in the morning when Hiro and Ando finally found themselves unlocking the door and trudging into the loft. There was no one in the front room, no one guarding the door. Hiro exchanged an uneasy glance with Ando. Quietly, they both set down their bags in the entryway. Hiro removed the Kensei sword from his duffel and led the way toward the back room, where they could hear muffled noise: voices, maybe, or the television.

 

At a nod from Hiro, Ando flung the door open. Inside, everyone jumped up at the sound of the door, and Alai and Matt both had their guns drawn before they saw who it was. They lowered their guns immediately, but said nothing. The room was totally silent, more than a dozen people staring at Hiro and Ando. Hiro saw the flickering of the television in the corner, but it must have been muted. In the strange silence, Hiro took stock of his team, noting who was here: everyone, plus Molly and Micah. Looked like Gabriel was the only one who hadn’t made it home. Maybe that’s why everyone looked so distraught. Maybe they’d figured out Gabriel wasn’t coming back.

 

“No one was watching the door,” Hiro said uncomfortably. That seemed to be the cue for everyone to start talking.

 

“Hiro, where have you been?”

 

“Do you believe this? How could it have happened?”

 

“Why would someone do this?”

 

“What are you going to do?”

 

Hiro looked to Ando, who looked just as confused as Hiro felt. “What are you talking about?” Hiro broke in over the questions.

 

Silence fell again, and then everyone moved aside so Hiro could see the television. It looked like the news: a hand-held video taken at some political rally, playing over and over again on a loop. Hiro got closer to the television, pushing his glasses up on his nose with a mounting feeling of trepidation, until he could see what the video showed. In the roiling chaos of a panicked crowed, Hiro saw himself jumping onto the stage, bypassing a cluster of Secret Service men, drawing a sword, and stabbing the President of the United States in the back.  


* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The line of Presidential succession goes into effect, Matt picks up some new clues about Hiro’s team, and Peter receives a gift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta’d by the fabulous [](http://redandglenda.livejournal.com/profile)[**redandglenda**](http://redandglenda.livejournal.com/). Remaining mistakes are mine. Oh, and as [](http://caelent.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://caelent.livejournal.com/)**caelent** pointed out last week, there was a criminal lack of Petrellis in the previous chapter. There are Petrellis this time.

The Vice President died at 8:13 in the morning, and by 8:19, the Chief of Staff was ushering Nathan into the Oval Office. He’d been in the office before, but now that it was his, it looked different. Now that this was _his_ office, it meant that Nathan Petrelli was really the President of the United States. This was the last stop on his whirlwind tour of the essentials of the White House offices, but he didn’t get much time to savor the moment. Nathan wasn’t feeling lonely, exactly, because Nathan Petrelli, now President Petrelli, would never feel anything as weak as loneliness, but he did momentarily wish there was someone here to share this moment. Heidi was en route from Hyde Park with the boys, but she wouldn’t quite understand what this meant to him. Ma would have understood. Peter would understand. Briefly, he wondered how he was going to sneak Peter into the White House.

 

The Chief of Staff, Jim Ginsberg, looked and acted as if he hadn’t slept since the President was attacked, which, Nathan reflected, was probably the case. Ginsberg was harried, almost terse with Nathan as he waved a hand vaguely around the room.

 

“Your office. Schedule for the rest of the day’s on the desk. And…” Ginsberg trailed off, again gesturing distractedly in the direction of the desk. “The rest we’ll figure out.” Ginsberg stood still a moment, as if waiting for something else to occur to him, and scrubbed a hand over his balding head. “That’s it,” he said at last.

 

“Fine,” Nathan replied easily. No matter what, he reminded himself, he had to remain calm and strong. Let his staff fall apart in the face of this crisis; Nathan had been born and bred for this opportunity, and he would not be weak now, would not show fear. 

 

Suddenly, Ginsberg straightened, as if remembering something, and held up a single finger as he strode to the door. “Almost forgot,” he muttered, and then he was shepherding a cluster of young people through the door. “You’ll be working with these ladies quite a bit,” he explained, pointing out each of the young women as he introduced them. Their names blurred together: Ashley, Amanda, two Jens. Nathan wasn’t really listening; he was sure it was one of their jobs to tell him everyone’s name when he needed to know.

 

“And this is Claire, who’s in charge of your schedule.” That brought Nathan’s attention snapping back from its wandering, and he looked at the girl Ginsberg was pointing to, at the back of the group. Claire looked much as she did the last time Nathan had seen her, that night on Kirby Plaza. Her hair was longer now, pinned in some professional-looking up-do. Nathan counted up the years in his head; he knew she must have graduated high school, but she still seemed young, too young to be here. 

 

“Welcome, Mister President,” she said politely, with only a twinkle in her eye to give away her connection to him. “I believe you know my dad.”

 

“Sure,” Nathan said easily, betraying none of the reeling confusion he felt. “We’re old friends.” His mind raced as he tried to work out if she was here at her adopted father’s request, or if she was here to spite Bennet. 

 

“That’s nice,” Ginsberg said absently. “Let’s leave the President alone for a minute, ladies. He’s got lots of work to do.”

 

The Chief of Staff started to shoo the girls out, but Nathan couldn’t tear his eyes away from his daughter. Claire mouthed the word “later” as she followed Ginsberg out the door, and then Nathan was alone in the Oval Office. His office.

 

Nathan realized with a start that he was standing in front of his desk, arms crossed over his chest, exactly the way he had been in Isaac’s painting. Irritably he dropped his hands to his sides and flung himself into the nearest chair. This was starting to get complicated.  
********

 

Matt was having headaches again. He hadn’t missed this aspect of his abilities, but now that he could hear thoughts again, at least intermittently, he couldn’t find it in his heart to be angry about the headaches. He could, however, be angry about being stuck in a studio apartment with enough emotional tension to boil water. Even though he wasn’t hearing thoughts this morning, the unspoken messages he _was_ receiving were enough to make his head hurt.

 

So far today, half a dozen people had tried to feel him out on his opinion toward the assassination. He’d just gone to pour himself a cup of coffee that morning when Shelly and Ed, two of his fellow rescued slaves with whom he hadn’t had much contact, had crowded in, whispering conspiratorially. 

 

“Matt, I wanted to ask you something about Hiro,” Shelly had whispered, keeping one eye on the doorway to the kitchen. “Did _you_ see him during the mission? I was thinking… He could have slipped away in all the confusion, no problem.” 

 

“Uh… Yeah. I saw him,” Matt had said carefully. “He came out of the building right after we got Micah and Molly out.”

 

Ed gave a muffled hurumph and addressed Shelly. “I told you he could have been in two places at once. He said himself his powers were working again.”

 

Matt had excused himself quickly and fled with his coffee to the living room, where Ando was just finishing a text message. Ando looked up to see Ed and Shelly following Matt, and muttered, “I’m going for a walk.” So much for using Ando as a buffer. Matt had to sit and endure another twenty minute of insufferable conspiracy theories. 

 

“Who was he texting, anyway?” Shelly whispered. “Everyone we know lives here.”

 

The rest of the morning had been equally painful: full of strained conversations that stopped whenever one of the veterans walked past. Matt was profoundly grateful when Dean finally stormed into the main room from the kitchen and shouted, “That is it! Everyone who isn’t doing something productive right now is coming with me. We’re going to the movies.”

 

Luckily, Matt had been helping Alai disassemble and clean the guns they’d taken with them on their mission. The cleaning hadn’t really needed to be done, but it kept their hands busy and provided a convenient excuse not to talk to anyone. Since Matt was making himself useful, Dean excused him from the outing. Lara and Molly stayed, too. Lara had taken Molly under her wing, and today the two were packaging Cure pills for delivery to other resistance cells. Micah had been about to go with the others, but when he saw that Matt and Molly were staying he muttered something about walkie talkies, got his tool kit, and sat down to stay. 

 

The group worked in companionable silence for a while, enjoying the relief of having so many of the others out of the apartment. Eventually, Micah looked up from his tools to ask, “Where’s Hiro, anyway?”

 

“Locked in the den,” Molly said. When everyone looked at her a moment too long, she explained quickly, “I _saw_ him go in there earlier. And Ando’s out somewhere. He said he had errands to run. I can’t blame him.”

 

“Where is he now?” Alai asked.

 

Molly blinked at him. “How should I know?” _Oh._ Matt heard the word distinctly in his mind as he saw the realization on Molly’s face. “I can’t find him like _that._ That’s an invasion of privacy,” she said. “It’s not an emergency, is it?”

 

“No, it’s not,” Lara said firmly. She glared at Alai, who shrugged. 

 

“Just think it’s useful, is all. I used to use my power all the time,” Alai said. He snapped an empty magazine into a rifle with more force than was strictly necessary. “No need to be afraid of it.” _Unless there is._

 

Matt looked sharply at Alai, but he’d gone back to screwing in the barrel of the rifle. He hadn’t spoken out loud. It looked like Matt’s powers had chosen now to start working again. 

 

“There are some powers that are dangerous, though,” Micah said. _Like when Peter Petrelli almost_ “Aren’t there?” _blew up New York?_

 

“Sure,” said Lara. “I think that’s why so many people let the government get away with what they’re doing. ‘Curing’ everyone. They’re…” _Ignorant and cowardly and…_ “Afraid.”

 

“But without the Cure, what would we do about the dangerous ones?” Molly asked. _The Boogeyman. Matt told me he was helping them. How could he be helping anyone?_ “Some people have powers that are really dangerous.”

 

Matt closed his eyes for a minute. He’d forgotten how disorienting it could be to hear thoughts under a conversation, especially with more than a few people involved. 

 

 _Every tool is_ “Every tool is a weapon if you hold it right,” said Lara with an ironic grin. 

 

“So who decides?” Micah broke in. He looked thoughtful, but Matt couldn’t pick up anything. “Am I dangerous? I could probably launch nuclear missiles from my laptop if I wanted. Should they take away my powers?”

 

“Of course not,” said Alai. _Could the kid really do that?_ “It just means you have to be careful about how you use your abilities.” 

 

“If Dean were here, he’d treat you to his super-hero/super-villain theory,” Lara said. She spared a smile for Matt. _You’re being awfully quiet._ “Didn’t I hear him expounding on it to you the other day, Matt? In detail?”

 

“What? Oh, right.” Matt nodded sourly. It hadn’t been as bad as listening to Shelly’s conspiracy theories, but it hadn’t been fun. _And you’re so cute when you’re pretending to care,_ he heard from Lara, who was still grinning. 

 

“What’s the theory?” Molly asked, thankfully distracting the others before Matt could blush.

 

“Do we honestly need to go into this?” Alai looked around as if he expected Dean to jump out from behind the sofa. “Do not get Dean started on comic book theories unless you have a few hours to spare. Honestly.”

 

“I think his point, if you take away references to Iron Man” _and Spider Man and Captain America_ “is that people with abilities need to use them correctly for the situation they’re in,” Lara explained. “If there were dangerous people with abilities, you’d use your abilities to stop them. If, oh, say for instance everyone with special abilities was enslaved, you might use your powers to free them.”

 

“Dean’s theory is that situations that require heroes create heroes,” Alai put it. _Although he would never say it that way. Too few words involved._

 

“I can see that,” Molly said. _Fighting the Boogeyman brought them all together… Mohinder, Matt, Micah’s family._ “If there was no slavery, there’d be no need for a resistance movement.”

 

“I’d rather do without the slavery in the first place,” Alai grumbled.

 

Matt thought he was getting the hang of this again. The thoughts he was hearing seemed to be more distinct, less fuzzy. But even reading thoughts couldn’t make this conversation entirely comprehensible. “I don’t know if I buy that slavery creates heroes,” he ventured. “In my experience, a lot of people are too scared to resist.”

 

“How long were you a slave, Matt? If you don’t mind my asking,” Lara said.

 

Matt hesitated for a moment, but couldn’t see how lying about it would make him seem any better or worse. “Just over two years,” he said.

 

“Is there much resistance from the inside?” Molly said. She looked at Micah. “We weren’t actually slaves, so I know it’s different, but not many kids tried to escape or anything. Is it the same with slaves?”

 

“Resistance from the inside is different. You have less to lose if you’re caught,” Alai said. _Speaking of things we don’t need to be talking about._ “Those of us on the outside have to know that there might be different consequences if we’re caught.”

 

“But if all you’re trying to do is escape, or to break out other slaves, how is that so bad?” Molly asked. “They won’t execute you for that, will they?”

 

“Probably not. Breaking out other slaves, providing support to escaped slaves, that’s the sort of stuff we do, the sort of stuff Hiro asks of us,” Alai explained. _Not that some of us haven’t gotten killed over even that._ “But Hiro’s not the only one who’s unhappy with the state of things. Some people take a little different approach.”

 

“Fight the disease, not the symptoms,” Lara said tightly. _Niki’s little mantra._ “There are those who think direct action against the establishment is the only way to change things.”

 

Matt caught a concerned glance from Lara, and frowned. Clearly there was something going on here that the veterans weren’t keen on discussing. And who was Niki? Had to be a former ally of some kind. 

 

“Direct action?” Molly asked.

 

“And they call _us_ terrorists,” Alai snorted. “We don’t bomb Senators’ homes, or kidnap governors’ children, or…” He reigned himself in, and finished, “Or anything else.”

 

“Those are the type of people that assassinated the President and the Vice President, right? The ones that…” Molly glanced surreptitiously at Micah, but went on. _Maybe Micah was right about Candice._ “The ones that impersonated Hiro somehow?”

 

“Exactly,” said Lara.

 

“Maybe they have the right idea,” Micah said. Everyone stared at him. “Not about impersonating Hiro, obviously. But fighting the disease, not the symptoms. You can’t save the world one person at a time. It doesn’t work like that.” He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms sullenly. 

 

There was silence for a moment, and even Matt heard nothing. Then Lara said, “Your dad would be surprised to hear you talk that way, Micah.”

 

“Why?”

 

“He thought that hurting people would only cause more conflict and give normal people more reason to fear us,” she explained.

 

“Would you really use your powers to kill someone?” Alai asked Micah.

 

“You killed people,” Micah pointed out. “You shot some of the guards that night you came for Molly and me.”

 

“Yes I did,” said Alai frankly. “They would have killed Hiro if I hadn’t. But I wouldn’t kill a man in his sleep.” _Unless I absolutely had to._

 

“D.L. didn’t like killing at all,” Lara said. “He wouldn’t even” _stupid, prideful, careless jerk_ “carry a gun.” 

 

“That’s what drove him and your mother apart, in the end,” Alai said. When Micah turned a gaze like a laser beam on him, Alai seemed to flinch mentally. _Oh well done. Poke the hornet’s nest again, why don’t you?._

 

“What do you mean by that?” Micah asked, his voice soft and controlled.

 

Alai looked at Lara, who shrugged. From her, Matt heard, _The kid has a right to know._ “About a year ago,” she began. “There was kind of a” _civil war_ “schism.” 

 

Matt hadn’t heard this before, and apparently Micah hadn’t either. “I thought my parents were both working with Hiro,” Micah said.

 

“Your mom wanted to take a more hands on approach to changing the world,” said Lara. _Hands on? Guns on, more like._ “She said she’d be able to find others who felt the same way.”

 

“D.L. stayed with us,” Alai said. 

 

“But Niki went off on her own,” Lara finished.

 

 _So close. If they know…_ “So where is she now?” Micah asked casually, in a tone diametrically opposed to the one Matt heard in his head. 

 

“We’re not really sure,” Lara said. “It’s not like we keep in touch.” _And if I never see that bitch again it will be too soon._

 

Micah looked between Alai and Lara searchingly for a moment. _She’s with Candace. That’s the only thing that makes sense._ “I need some fresh air,” he said.

 

Micah grabbed his coat from a hook next to the door and fled the apartment, leaving the others sitting in silence. After a moment, Molly heaved a tremendous sigh. _If I don’t go after him, he might not come back._ She took her coat and followed him. Lara gave Matt a knowing smile, but went back to her pill-sorting without comment. 

 

Matt considered what he’d heard. There was something, some clue to what was happening with Hiro, which hovered just outside his memory. “Do either of you know who Candace is?” he asked.  
*********

 

New York City looked different than Peter remembered, but at least it wasn’t a burned-out ruin devastated by a nuclear blast. At first, he wasn’t sure where he wanted to go; he simply wandered the streets, collar of his long coat turned up against the rain. Peter thought as he walked, and the more he thought, the more the city reminded him of something he was missing. He didn’t have money for a taxi, so he hopped a turnstile and rode the subway to the Bronx. 

 

He hadn’t been to Woodlawn since his father’s funeral. He’d never felt the need to visit the old man; they hadn’t been particularly close. And he couldn’t imagine that Nathan had been here often, to lay flowers or say a prayer. Nevertheless, Peter’s feet found the way. He had been certain this is where he would find her; in the family plot, next to his dad. 

 

_Angela Petrelli  
Beloved wife, devoted mother   
1944 – 2008_

 

“Hi mom,” he whispered. 

 

Since Nathan had brought him home, he hadn’t known, hadn’t thought about it, nor taken the time to wonder where his mother was. Nathan could have kept Peter’s rescue a secret from Heidi, but never from Ma Petrelli. She was an expert at dragging information out of her sons. So when Peter had begun to consider the matter, he’d realized what must have happened. He had a good idea of what he was going to find here, but that didn’t mean he was prepared for it. 

 

Staring at the gravestone, Peter wondered why Nathan hadn’t told him, and he added that slight as fuel for the fire of anger he’d built up against his brother. Mom might have given more of her attention to Nathan, but that didn’t make Peter love her any less. He couldn’t help but go to her for approval, where there was none from his father. _I always wanted a nurse in the family._ She was the one who, in her own way, made him feel loved. _You were always my favorite. I can not lose you._ Not that she was perfect. She’d kept so many secrets. _I knew long before either of you did._ Still, Angela, his mother, shouldn’t be gone without a chance for him to say goodbye.

 

He tried to imagine the funeral: Monty crying, Heidi comforting him, Simon standing stoically by while Nathan eulogized. Peter wondered how it had happened before dismissing the question as unimportant. It didn’t matter why she was dead, only that she was gone. 

 

Turning his attention again to the gravestone, Peter saw that something small was written beneath the name and date, and he came closer to see what it was. 

 

_I love thee to the depth and breadth and height  
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight  
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace._

 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Peter realized with a frown. Who had chosen that, and why? Mom wasn’t big on poetry. He took a step back and belatedly felt his heel catch on a clod of earth. Reaching forward to grab the stone, he overbalanced, and felt himself falling, heard the angry crack of his head connecting with something hard. 

 

“I’m not having this conversation.”

 

That was Nathan’s voice, and Peter realized with a start that this was Nathan’s old room in their parents’ house in Manhattan. Nathan stood at the bed shoving things angrily into a suitcase, and there was Mom, standing serenely by the door. Mom. She looked a little older than Peter remembered her: probably from the stress of handling Nathan with no brother as an intermediary, but she was still regal as always. Peter hadn’t realized until now how much he’d missed her. Peter himself was standing against the wall. They didn’t seem to notice him.

 

“Be sensible,” Ma began, but Nathan cut her off.

 

“I am going after him,” he snapped as he zipped up his suitcase with more force than necessary.

 

“You’ll do no such thing,” Ma said, and Peter recognized the dismissive tone which meant that she felt her argument was already won. “You have a future to think about, and I will not let you throw it away for something you can’t fix.”

 

“I can fix it,” Nathan said. He pulled his suitcase off the bed and stood with it, his jaw set determinedly, as if he could make her get out of the way by force of will alone.

 

“You can’t, Nathan.” She put her hand on his arm. Peter saw the quick narrowing of Nathan’s eyes that meant he was gearing up for an argument. Ma went on before he could get started. “How were you planning to get him, even if you could find him? Do you think no one would notice if you brought home a new slave that looked a lot like your brother?”

 

“I’ll find a way” Nathan said, but Peter knew that near-desperate tone of voice, the tensing shoulders. The seed of doubt had been planted.

 

“Would you?” Ma asked archly. “Were you able to find a way to keep him safe before?”

 

Peter saw the tightening of Nathan’s jaw that meant Mom had scored a hit. “I tried.”

 

“But you failed. You couldn’t fix it, so you have to live with it. Think, Nathan. What would Peter say if you did find him?”

 

Nathan stiffened, and even Peter flinched a little. Trust Ma to know where to stick the knife. She’d been right, though, hadn’t she? Peter hadn’t been happy to see his brother when the time came.

 

“Would he say ‘Thank you, big brother, for the hell you’ve put me through? Thank you for throwing me to the wolves again?’” Nathan dropped the bag he’d been holding. Ma paused a second before asking, more softly, “Do you think he’d welcome you with open arms?”

 

After taking in that last question, Nathan turned away, putting his hands on the edge of the doorframe. Then Peter noticed that Nathan was shaking; he heard a little exhalation, jagged and breathy. Nathan was crying. 

 

Peter could count on one hand the times he’d seen Nathan cry. Not when their father died, not after Heidi’s accident. Now Ma just gave him space, knowing her battle was won. After a few moments, she went and pressed a kiss to Nathan’s cheek. “I know it’s hard, Nathan, but you’re the strong one. Let me handle Peter, and you concentrate on what’s important, okay Congressman?”

 

Nathan nodded mutely, and Ma straightened his tie. “I’ll get these things unpacked. Go,” Ma said. Nathan nodded once more, and wandered out. 

 

Peter watched Ma as she stood looking after Nathan, a satisfied half-smile on her lips. Then she said, “This is the way it had to be, Peter.” She looked right at him.

 

He blinked. “You can see me?”

 

“Of course I can see you. Come here.” 

 

Peter took a few stumbling steps toward her, and she waited patiently until he was close enough to take in her arms, to hold him, one hand pressed protectively to the back of his head, the other around his shoulder. “What is this?” Peter whispered.

 

“It’s a gift, Peter.”

 

“A dream?” he asked.

 

“A gift. I hoped you’d come here. I need to tell you, to show you…” She took a long, shuddering breath, and Peter thought she might be close to crying, too. He was scared to look; he’d never seen her cry, and the thought that there might be something now to cry about that was worse than all that came before… Well, it wasn’t a comforting thought. 

 

“It’s okay. What is it, Mom?”

 

“I was wrong,” she said, so softly that Peter almost missed it. “It wasn’t about one of you. It was never about choosing one of you. It’s about you both.”

 

“What are you talking about?” Peter pulled out of her embrace so that he could look her in the face, but her eyes were clear and inscrutable as always.

 

“He needs you, Peter. I didn’t think he did, but he can’t do it without you,” she said, shaking her head. “Neither of you alone can be the one we need.”

 

Peter considered that a moment, wondering what had made his mother change her mind after believing so fiercely that Nathan alone was the worthy one. “Why didn’t you let him come after me?” he asked at last.

 

“Would you have been grateful, if he did?”

 

“No,” Peter whispered. 

 

“That’s what I thought,” she said, and wrapped him in another hug. “Can you understand?”

 

Peter shook his head no. He couldn’t understand the thinking, the damn Petrelli stubbornness that would prevent Nathan from explaining what he meant to do, prevent Ma from letting Nathan find him, prevent him from being grateful even when Nathan did come. It was far beyond understanding, far beyond acceptance. 

 

“I know,” she said soothingly, and she stroked his hair—long again, in this dream—and kissed him on the forehead. “Can you forgive?”

 

“I don’t know,” Peter said truthfully.

 

“Try, Peter,” she whispered. “I only ask that you try.”

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nathan talks to women, Gabriel doesn’t get any sweet tea, Micah goes all James Dean, and Peter remembers art history class.

Nathan was enjoying a much-needed respite in his office, where he was supposed to be proof-reading a speech for the press conference later that afternoon. In reality, he was just staring at the papers, his eyes glazing over with exhaustion. Nathan hadn’t been alone all day. Ginsberg had been constantly shepherding him to one meeting or another. He hadn’t expected that being President would be restful, exactly, but this was a little much.

 

There was a brisk knock at the door, and one of the office girls—Jess, Cathy? Nathan had no idea—poked her head in. “Mandy Worthington here for you, sir,” she said.

 

“Mandy?” Nathan blinked his tiredness away. “Send her in.”

 

Almost immediately, Mandy appeared in the doorway. She looked quickly around the room and then approached the desk, face set determinedly. For a moment, Nathan was glad to see her. After all the stress and confusion of the day, it was nice to see a familiar face. Then he realized something: she should be in Westchester. “What happened?” he asked flatly.

 

Mandy wouldn’t meet his eyes. “He’s gone, sir. Mister President, sir.”

 

No. He knew she wouldn’t be here otherwise, but still Nathan found it hard to believe. He had tried so hard this time. “Gone where?” he asked slowly.

 

“I don’t know, Mister President. He was in his room this afternoon, but when I went to check on him later, he was gone. No one saw him leave. None of the vehicles are gone. I have people checking train and bus stations and airports, but he didn’t have anything, any money. I don’t know where he could have gone,” she said, accelerating through the speech as if in a hurry to get to the part where it wasn’t her fault. “It’s like he just disappeared.”

 

Disappeared. Like he was invisible? There was no way… Nathan shook his head. “This can’t happen right now, Mandy. Find him. Today. And get him back to Westchester.” If anyone else found Peter first…No. He would not let his brother go back to that.

 

There was a soft click of the door closing, and Nathan looked up to see Claire standing with her back pressed against the door to the secretary’s office, watching him and Mandy warily. “Sorry, Mister President. There was no meeting on your schedule,” she said by way of explanation, gesturing to the clipboard in her hand. “I needed to tell you that the situation meeting was moved up. It’s starting in five minutes.”

 

“Go on, Mandy,” Nathan said, but he kept his eyes on Claire as Mandy quickly left the way she’d came, wilting a little under the force of Claire’s glare.

 

As soon as the door closed again, Claire asked, “Who is she supposed to find?”

 

“That’s really none of your business,” Nathan said coolly. He wondered how much she’d heard.

 

“Does it have something to do with the _family_?” she asked. Her lips curled around the last word.

 

He couldn’t trust Claire, not without knowing where she stood with her _real_ father, so he had to push her away. “It has nothing to do with you,” he said, putting the full force of his Petrelli haughtiness into the statement. Claire recoiled a little, as if stung, and Nathan went on before she could reply. “What time is the meeting?”

 

“Two forty, Mister President,” she said, and tucked her clipboard under her arm, returning to her polite, if stiff, formality.

 

Under her accusing glare, Nathan stood and headed out one of the office’s other doors to avoid walking past his daughter. His daughter by blood, maybe, but never really his. She was too loyal to her real family to ever want to be one of the Petrellis. Good for her. Though she really did care about Peter, he reflected as he stepped out into the hall. He headed for the Situation Room, barely noticing when two Secret Service agents fell into step behind him. If Claire could be trusted, then maybe should could help, but he’d have to wait and see.

 

And where in the _hell_ had Peter gone? This could not be happening right now. He’d done everything he could to make Peter stay, and he’d still failed. Even if he could find Peter again, what could he do to make him stay that he hadn’t already done? If Nathan needed to keep him sedated, lock him up, anything, he would do it next time, as long as it meant keeping Peter safe. He just had to find him again.

 

Jim Ginsberg caught up with Nathan just as he was getting into the elevator. “I assume Claire told you about the schedule change?” Ginsberg was breathing heavily, as if he’d just run through half the west wing.

 

“That’s right,” said Nathan. Ginsberg handed him a blue binder with the meeting agenda. Nathan forced himself to focus on the meeting, banishing thoughts of his family. Compartmentalize to keep control. “Anything I should know about?”

 

Ginsberg grimaced. “Everyone wants to know what we’re going to do about the assassination. I told them we should concentrate on the former President and Vice President’s funerals first before we roll out any new initiatives, but…” He spread his arms helplessly. “They want to discuss other options.”

 

“Again,” Nathan said tightly. Ginsberg opened the door for him, and Nathan entered the situation room. At one side of the table sat Alicia Madden, the Secretary of Homeland Security. She was facing the wall of video screens that lined the room, watching footage of the assassination that some helpful aide had put on a loop.

 

Nathan watched impassively as the Democratic fundraiser in Greensboro appeared on the screen. The crowd clapped and cheered silently, on mute. Then the camera shook, and at the edge of the frame appeared a bloom of fire: the explosion that had killed twelve civilians at the rally, and mortally wounded the Vice President. Nathan knew what to watch for, so he caught the moment when Hiro leaped onto the stage in slow motion, darting in behind secret service agents whose attention was on the explosion, and thrust his sword into the President’s back.

 

It was maddening to know—know for sure—that his advisors were drawing erroneous conclusions, and not be able to speak up. Nathan couldn’t come out and say that he knew Hiro Nakamura wouldn’t assassinate the President. He couldn’t risk associating himself with Hiro in any way. But it wasn’t Hiro on that tape, he was sure of that much.

 

“Small, cozy gathering,” Nathan said, waving a hand at the empty seats. “Anyone else joining us?”

 

In truth, Nathan wasn’t sure he wanted to be having this meeting at all. This was the third such meeting since Nathan had been sworn in, and he was losing patience with endless discussions on how to deal with the new terrorist threat. The deliberations over how to respond to the attack on the former President, God rest his soul, had acquired a slightly hysterical tone. The more advisors present, the more hysterical the discussion became.

 

Madden shook her head. “No one else got the memo about the time change.”

 

“But,” Ginsberg began, “They’ll want to be in on the meeting.”

 

“I had a proposal I wanted to run by the President first,” she told him coolly.

 

“I imagine the other cabinet members will want to hear this as well,” Ginsberg replied. Nathan could hear the irritation in his voice, annoyance at being out-maneuvered.

 

Madden turned away from Ginsberg as if she hadn’t heard him, and addressed Nathan. “I’d like to discuss something with you in private, Mister President.” Ginsberg grunted in protest, but Madden ignored it. “It’s a matter of national security.”

 

Ah, those magic words, against which no one could argue. “Agreed,” said Nathan, almost gratefully. If Madden had an intelligent suggestion to make, Nathan would rather hear it in private, away from the mounting hysteria of the rest of his advisors. “Unless anyone else has a pressing matter to bring to our attention?”

 

Grumbling, Ginsberg vacated the room with the rest of the aides, and closed the door behind him.

 

“So, Alicia. What’s this idea of yours?” Nathan asked, taking a seat across from her.

 

“Well, Mister President, it involves your friend Mohinder Suresh.”  
********

 

There was sun streaming into the building when Gabriel awakened to his neighbor’s urgent calls. “Hey boy! Looks like they’re coming for you!”

 

Gabriel sat up quickly and realized that his head was still throbbing. The pain was exacerbated by the clatter of the cell door as it was pulled open with a rusty squeal, and Gabriel clapped one hand to his head as if that could ward off the pain. Two blue-uniformed men stood in the doorway for a moment watching him, but when he did nothing, one of them snorted contemptuously and the other said, “Not so tough now, is he?”

 

They pulled Gabriel to his feet and half-guided, half-dragged him out of the cell. The aisle outside was wide, maybe fifteen feet across, a plain cement walkway lined with sturdy wooden doors like the one they’d just come through. The place seemed too quiet, and Gabriel wondered how many of the cells they passed were actually inhabited. He knew his hearing wasn’t what it had been, but there couldn’t be two hundred people here. Gabriel would be surprised if there were a dozen prisoners in the whole place. “No one stays here long,” his neighbor had said. Gabriel had a horrible thought: disposal. They could be taking him away to kill him. That one thought made him lose his grip on the calm that held the Sylar-thoughts at bay.

 

Immediately, Gabriel dug his heels in, pulling back against the guards’ grip on his arms. For a moment, they were caught off balance, and one nearly stumbled. Soon enough, too soon, the second guard was pulling back against Gabriel, trying to get him moving again. All Gabriel could imagine was darkness: would they give him an injection, like putting an old cat to sleep, or would they simply shoot him out behind the barn?

 

Gabriel was not a violent man, but Sylar knew violence, embraced it. Pulling his hand free from the guard who had tripped, Gabriel struck at the other man’s face with an open palm. His timing was off; Sylar wasn’t used to being so slow, so weak without telekinesis. The guard caught his hand easily and shoved him to the floor. Gabriel landed on his side, knocking his head against the concrete. The guard followed up by kicking Gabriel in the stomach, hard, and Gabriel thought that he had never been in so much pain. His eyes watered, he couldn’t breathe, and all the strength and rage of Sylar fled.

 

“Calm down, jackass,” said the guard who had kicked him. Together, he and the other guard hauled Gabriel to his feet again. “We’re just taking you up to have a little talk with the boss.”

 

The boss? Gabriel let himself be dragged out beyond the huge double doors at the end of the aisle, unable to do much else until the nausea-inducing pain had faded somewhat. Then he was blinking in the bright morning sunlight as the guards guided him along a dirt path, up a hill to what looked like an old farmhouse. For miles around there was nothing else but fields and fences, and the barn. The farmhouse had a gorgeous wrap-around porch, and that was where they deposited Gabriel, in a rocking chair not far from the back door.

 

“Stay,” one of the guards told him, and then took a position at the corner of the porch while the other went inside.

 

Gabriel tried to think beyond the pain in his belly, but it was difficult. He was so vulnerable now, weak as he hadn’t been in so long, and that thought sickened him all over again. Still, he tried to regain his sense of calm, the serenity that could help him fend off Sylar impulses. If he was going to have to talk to some mysterious boss, he needed cunning, not violence. By the time he heard the porch door slam, Gabriel thought he was prepared to talk.

 

The guard had returned with Bennet, and Gabriel realized with a sinking feeling that he should have expected no better luck. Of course Bennet was in charge here.

 

Bennet glowered at him like he was a monster, and Gabriel managed to grin in return. A dangerous game, this. Bennet knew Sylar. Would he be able to tell that Gabriel was not Sylar? Gabriel repressed a wince as he sat up straight. He would have to be the Sylar that Bennet remembered, to protect Hiro and the others. “Hello Mr. Bennet,” he said, holding on to his grin.

 

Bennet’s expression grew even colder. “The only reason you’re still alive is because I’m allowing it. I want to see if there was anything in that twisted mind of yours that would be worth knowing. But you only get one chance. If you don’t tell me what I want to know, then I have no reason to keep you alive. Do you understand what I’m saying, Sylar?”

 

It was an effort to keep back the automatic response that his name was Gabriel, but he managed it. “How’s Claire?” he asked, because Sylar would have done so.

 

“Don’t bother, Sylar. I’m not afraid of you.”

 

Gabriel felt his calm slip as he realized Bennet was telling the truth. Bennet had always had a healthy respect for the threat Sylar posed, even when Sylar was supposedly at his mercy. Now, however, Bennet was not in the least intimidated or even concerned. Without thinking, Gabriel’s eyes darted to the slave tattoo on his wrist, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bennet smile grimly.

 

“There’s no escape from that,” Bennet said, jerking his chin toward the tattoo. “Your powers are gone. Permanently erased.”

 

Even if Gabriel knew it wasn’t necessarily true, he had to repress a shudder. This wasn’t permanent. Mohinder’s treatment could reverse it. He wasn’t crippled forever. Please, God, don’t let it be permanent.

 

Some of his distress must have shown on his face, because Bennet’s smile widened. “Beginning to get the picture, Sylar?” He pulled up a chair and sat across from Gabriel. “Who were you working with?”

 

Gabriel pushed down his mounting panic and channeled Sylar: arrogant, contemptuous, full of rage. “Those ones that were with me at the facility? Lackeys. Foot soldiers. Lambs to the slaughter. I was there for myself.” The words sounded hollow to him, and he wondered if Bennet could hear it, could tell that the man he was talking to wasn’t really Sylar. Was Gabriel the only one who noticed the difference?

 

“Who were you after?”

 

Gabriel smiled coldly. “Who do you think?”

 

“Two of the residents of that facility are missing. Where are they?”

 

Gabriel imagined the situation as Sylar would have seen it, imagined what Sylar would have done if given free rein. “You haven’t found their—. You haven’t found them yet?” he asked, almost innocently.

 

Bennet’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t kill them. My soldiers saw your people taking them out of the facility. Where are they?”

 

Gabriel leaned forward in the rocking chair and spoke softly. “I’m saving them for later.”

 

Bennet’s expression turned dark, but the bang of the screen door interrupted whatever he was going to say. The Haitian, standing at the door, motioned urgently for him to come inside. Bennet said, “Stay here,” and went back into the house.

 

Gabriel watched him go, but he didn’t dare drop his act, not with the two guards still watching him. He took a deep breath to calm himself, and hoped that it looked casual. This couldn’t go on. He couldn’t pretend to be Sylar. If he pretended to be Sylar, he _would_ be Sylar; it was as simple as that. Gabriel stole a look at the screen door, weighing his options. If the choice was between avoiding Sylar and putting his friends in danger, or giving in to Sylar and keeping his friends safe, he knew which path he would choose.  
********

 

The Haitian pointed to the front parlor and gave Bennet an uneasy shrug. Bennet threw a look over his shoulder, at the porch where Sylar sat, probably laughing at him. Sylar had been too cool, too cowed. He must be planning something. “Watch him,” he told the Haitian before heading to the front parlor.

 

On one of the divans sat Alicia Madden, the Secretary of Homeland Security, with a glass of sweet tea in one hand. Bennet wondered if the Haitian had offered it, or if she’d had the nerve to ask. “Hello Noah,” she said when she saw him. “How’s your newest inmate?”

 

Bennet frowned as he took a seat in a wing-backed chair, facing her across the coffee table. Sylar had been here less than forty-eight hours. She shouldn’t have even known he was in custody, Bennet wasn’t surprised. She had her sources, same as he did. “I was just talking to him.”

 

An unreadable look flickered on Madden’s face before she returned to her detached placidity. “And how is he?”

 

“He’s like a kitten now,” Bennet said, surprised by the twist of pleasure that ran through him at the thought. “Declawed, weak, helpless.”

 

Madden smiled at him. “Good. Then it shouldn’t be a problem to hold on to him for a while.”

 

“I thought the plan was to dispose of him as soon as possible,” Bennet said through clenched teeth. “Ma’am,” he added belatedly.

 

“We have a use for him,” she said.

 

“With all due respect, Madam Secretary,” Bennet began, “Once we find out who he was working with, I recommend—.”

 

Madden cut him off. “It wasn’t the ones we’re after. This break-in is far less important than finding the ones responsible for the assassination. The assassins are the priority now.”

 

And that was another thing Bennet couldn’t discuss with her. He’d seen—he thought he’d seen—Hiro Nakamura that night at the detention center. Two Hiros in different places at the same time could only mean one thing: Candice was back. Hiro was a big-time terrorist; he wouldn’t waste his time kidnapping children. He hadn’t tried anything like an assassination before, but there was a first time for everything. That meant Candace must have been working with Sylar. They just hadn’t known that the real Hiro was planning to assassinate the President the same night they broke into the detention facility. “I seriously doubt that Sylar can lead us to Hiro Nakamura, Madam Secretary,” said Bennet.

 

She smiled. “You always think so directly, Noah. You don’t have access to all the facts.”

 

“But Sylar—,” Bennet began.

 

“Which is more important?” Madden interrupted. “Retrieving information about a low-level terrorist cell, or complying with a special Presidential Order?”

 

Bennet stared at her for a moment. Nathan Petrelli could not possibly have something to do with an order to spare Sylar’s life. Not possibly. “What Presidential Order?”

 

Madden sipped her sweet tea delicately before saying, “Sylar is needed in Washington.”

 

“I’ve been down this road before, ma’am,” Bennet said after a moment of uncomfortable silence. “It can’t lead anywhere good.”

 

“You said yourself that he’s harmless.”

 

Bennet shifted uncomfortably. “Yes.

 

“He’s more use to us as a bargaining chip, now.” Madden set down her glass of tea on the end table. “If you dispose of him, you’re robbing us of a valuable tool. I can’t let you do that.”

 

Bennet very much wanted to scream at her. If he thought it would do any good, he would have. “Ma’am, for the record I’d like to say I think this is a mistake.”

 

“Duly noted,” Madden said politely, and stood. “Get him ready for transport. He’s going back to Washington with me.”

 

“Yes ma’am,” Bennet ground out, clenching his jaw to keep from saying anything more.

 

Madden smiled at Bennet as she turned to go, but stopped in the doorway. “And Noah? I think I’d like to take your Haitian with me as well, just to be safe. He makes a mean glass of sweet tea.”  
********

 

“There you are,” said Molly.

 

Micah was leaning against the building, one foot propped against the brick wall, puffing on a cigarette. He looked like the quintessential teenage rebel.

 

“Where did you get that?” Molly asked, pointing to the cigarette.

 

“Dean smokes. I took them from his coat earlier.”

 

“Bad boys are overrated,” Molly muttered, but she leaned against the wall next to Micah anyway.

 

“It had to be Candice,” he said at last.

 

Molly thought about it for a moment, but she had no idea what he was talking about. “You mentioned her before,” she said. “That’s the woman who kidnapped you, right?”

 

“She assassinated the President,” Micah said, and the certainty in his voice made Molly raise an eyebrow. “She can make you see things. She can look like someone else.”

 

“Oh,” said Molly. She was used to following Micah’s brisk explanations. They often shared information, catching the other up enough so they could have someone to talk to about their theories, their plans. It was nice to have someone to whom she didn’t have to explain every little detail of her deductions: Micah could fill in the details on his own, and he trusted her to do the same.

 

After a moment, Micah said, “Find her for me.”

 

Molly sighed. “What will that accomplish?”

 

“I just want to know. Please?”

 

“It’s only for emergencies,” Molly said firmly.

 

“Molly! I think this woman killed the President and framed Hiro. It’s important.”

 

Micah looked at her with pleading eyes until she couldn’t stand it any more. “Okay,” she sighed.

 

Molly pulled a pocket atlas from her coat. At the school, they’d made her carry it all the time, and she’d gotten into the habit. She opening it up and concentrated on Candice. Candice, the one who can show you things. It was a little harder because she’d never seen the woman, but she knew, from what Micah had said, vaguely what kind of a person she was. Molly tried to hold in her head the impression of person who would stab the President of the United States, tried to hold that impression along with the name Candice. When she opened her eyes, her index finger was pointing to a street in Louisville, Kentucky, on the forty-second page of the atlas.

 

“Kentucky?” Micah said doubtfully.

 

“Why not?”

 

Micah fished a pen from his pocket and marked the spot on Molly’s atlas. He took another long drag on his cigarette before he spoke again. “I bet my mom’s there, too.”

 

This was an old argument. Micah asked about his dad, or his mom or both about once a week since they’d been in school together. “I’m not going to tell you,” Molly said, exasperated.

 

“Molly, it’s important.”

 

“I think it’s wrong to use my powers for something personal like that,” Molly said. And if anyone should know why she felt that way, it should be Micah.

 

“But you do know where she is.”

 

Molly shrugged. She didn’t want to lie, really, but she could let him believe that she didn’t know. She hadn’t told anyone that she could see locations now even without a map to focus her impressions. That tidbit was a secret too delicate to share, even with Micah.

 

“She is with Candice, isn’t she?” Micah said, throwing his cigarette butt down and grinding it into the pavement with his heel. When it was all but obliterated, he looked back to Molly, who was stubbornly silent. “Isn’t she!”

 

“Don’t yell at me!” Molly screamed. She turned on her heel and trotted back down the alley before she could say more. Even being cooped up in the apartment was preferable to this. She couldn’t talk about this anymore; Micah would know if she was lying, and if he found out, he would only put himself in danger. If he knew for sure that she’d found Niki in the same place as Candace, there was no telling what he might do.  
********

 

“Hey. Hey!”

 

Peter came to with a start. His cheek rested on damp ground, and when he sat up, he saw an older man, clad in a khaki uniform and holding a pair of hedge trimmers as if they were a baseball bat. The man eyed Peter suspiciously and said, “You can’t sleep here. Show some respect.”

 

Peter pulled his eyes away from the man to look around, and he remembered at last where he was. Just to his right was Angela Petrelli’s gravestone. “I’m sorry,” Peter replied. He shivered, realizing that his coat was now soaked through, and muddy besides. “I think I fell,” he said as he got to his feet.

 

The man’s eyes flicked to Peter’s wrist where the slave tattoo peeked out from under his coat sleeve, and he began to look a little nervous. “I think you’d best get out, okay?”

 

“Okay,” Peter said quickly. The last thing he wanted was to get arrested. The attendant watched Peter warily as he picked his way through the rows of gravestones, determined not to give in to the urge to run. He left as fast as he could go, stumbling back vaguely toward the direction of the gate. He had no clear plan as to what to do next. The thought flew into his head that he could go back to Westchester. He could get warm and dry, and Nathan would be home today, waiting for him. His mother’s words rang in his ears: “Can you forgive?” Maybe. Maybe he could, but not right now. He wasn’t ready right now.

 

That left Option B: find somewhere else to go. Peter thought about it for a moment, and suddenly felt very, very lonely. He never thought there would be a time when he wouldn’t know anyone in New York, but now… There was no one from his old life he could trust to hide him. It had been three years since he’d even been to New York. His old life was gone.

 

His old life couldn’t help him, but maybe there was something else. Peter had met people since becoming a slave. He wouldn’t go to anyone he’d met while working for Gillette, no, and most of Sydney’s friends were Midwest or West Coast people, but there was one… _There’s this guy I know whose owner keeps a place in Manhattan, actually, in our old neighborhood._ Lonzo. He came from Brazil originally, but his mistress was some sort of real estate mogul. They had homes in Manhattan, Los Angelas, Las Vegas, Montreal, Miami, Chicago… which is how they came to be at the same parties as Sydney. Peter and Lonzo had discussed their neighborhood before, the old part of Gramercy Park where Peter had grown up. Peter thanked his lucky stars for that. Lonzo was now literally the only person he knew in New York. He stumbled back to the metro, and got off at 23rd Street.

 

Seeing the old neighborhood, Peter had a moment of doubt. He couldn’t very well approach every house in the neighborhood, especially looking like he did. It had started to rain, but that did nothing to wash the mud off his coat. He searched his memory for any tidbit from the conversation that would give him a clue. Lonzo’s house had been on the same street as the Petrellis’, he remembered that. What else had they discussed? Closer to the park. So that narrowed it down to just a few blocks. What else? Crenellated roof, Peter remembered suddenly. He remembered distinctly that they’d discussed the word crenellated for about five minutes before the other slaves present had gotten bored and changed the subject. Making his way to the right area, Peter carefully avoided the block where the Petrelli mansion stood. Closer to the park, though, he began to pay attention to architecture, and quickly came to the conclusion that there was only one house in the area that Lonzo could possibly have meant: a mini-mansion whose roof was lined with notches like battlements. Crenellated. Thank God for art history class.

 

Knowing better than to ring the front doorbell, Peter went around back to the service entrance and knocked. Lonzo had to be here. Please let his owner be in New York for the season. A woman in a plain blue slave uniform answered the door. “Can I help you?” she asked.

 

“I’m looking for Lonzo,” Peter said, working to keep his teeth from chattering.

 

The woman stared at him impassively, taking in his disheveled clothes. “And who should I tell him is here?”

 

“Peter,” he said, barely stopping himself from adding “Petrelli.” Even after years of having his last name stricken from the record, it was still reflex to want to say it. Did that mean Petrelli was a part of him too deep to root out, he wondered? The woman shut the door in his face and left him standing there on the stoop, rain plastering his hair to his head, as he contemplated his relationship to his name.

 

Then Lonzo appeared in the doorway, looking just as he had last week, before Peter’s life was turned upside down: tall and brown, his long hair curly and falling handsomely into his face. Lonzo leaned out into the alley, looked both ways, and pulled Peter inside by the shoulder, slamming the door shut behind him. With a quick sweep of his eyes, he took in Peter’s soaked hair, his muddy coat, his forlorn expression. “What have you done this time?” he asked, disapprovingly, but with a resigned protectiveness that reminded Peter of his brother.

 

“Hey Lonzo,” Peter said.

 

Lonzo pulled him into an affectionate hug, though Peter made a strangled yelp of protest. When he pulled away, Lonzo followed Peter’s gaze down to his suit, its lapels now damp and muddy as Peter’s coat. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” Lonzo said, shaking his head. He grabbed Peter’s arm and pulled him out of the hallway into the kitchen.

 

Two female slaves, including the one who’d answered the door, immediately busied themselves with the kitchen work, one chopping apples and another putting away dishes, both pretending not to eavesdrop.

 

Lonzo ignored them, pressing Peter into a chair at the kitchen table and grabbing a towel from the sink. “The last I heard of you… Where have you been?” he asked. Handing Peter the towel, he perched on the edge of the table and lowered his voice. “I’d heard Sydney put you up for auction”

 

“Yeah,” Peter said. “She did.”

 

Lonzo glanced quickly over his shoulder at the other two slaves, who were apparently hard at work, then back to Peter. “Your new owner?”

 

Peter looked at his feet. “Lonzo, I don’t want to put you in danger, but I didn’t know where else to go.”

 

Lonzo’s eyes widened in realization. “You ran away?”

 

Peter nodded, and Lonzo let out a long and probably impressive string of Portuguese swearing. “That bad?”

 

“I couldn’t stay,” Peter said, surprised to hear that his voice was shaky. “Lonzo—.”

 

“Lonzo!”

 

Lonzo suddenly stood up straighter as a tall, auburn-haired woman swept into the room like a miniature hurricane. Celia Hammerlund was perhaps ten or fifteen years older than Lonzo, and in many ways she reminded Peter of his mother. She was a regular in many different social circles, and had that regal, perpetually amused expression when dealing with strangers or servants. As owners went, she seemed to be one of the decent ones; she had always been polite to Peter, and Peter knew from discussions with friends that Lonzo’s position in the household was as much personal assistant as companion.

 

Peter dropped his eyes respectfully as she approached them, and Lonzo stepped forward to give her a kiss on the cheek. “Hello Celia,” he said. “You remember Peter?”

 

“Yes, of course,” she smiled at him, only raising an eyebrow at his untidy appearance. “Are you running an errand, dear?”

 

Before Peter could speak, Lonzo answered for him. “Peter has a free afternoon. A reward. He came to visit me.”

 

“Lovely,” she said.

 

Peter smiled at her, trying to be charming, but his eyes were starting to burn. He blinked rapidly, but it didn’t stop the burning, and it _hurt._ “Are you okay?” Lonzo asked softly.

 

“Fine,” Peter said, trying again to smile, though his vision was getting blurry. “I guess I’m just tired."

 

Celia looked at Peter more sharply, and turned back to Lonzo. They exchanged a few words in rapid Portuguese, and Peter could tell, even not understanding the words, that Lonzo was being evasive.

 

“Right. Well, you two have fun.” She headed for the door. “Peter’s welcome to stay for dinner,” she added, and swept from the room.

 

Peter scrubbed his hand across his eyes. “Sorry,” he muttered.

 

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Lonzo sighed. “I think I have some clothes you can borrow.”  


* * *


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mohinder receives a proposition, Nathan takes some comfort, and Peter needs help.

Mohinder fervently wished he knew what was going on. Hiro wasn’t answering his phone, and from what he’d seen on the news, Mohinder wondered if it was because Hiro was dead or in a Homeland Security detention facility somewhere. Mohinder knew Hiro hadn’t really assassinated the president. He wouldn’t. But that meant something else was going on, and Mohinder would give a great deal to know what that something else was.

 

Then Alicia Madden’s assistant called Mohinder to set up a meeting, and he was sure he was about to be arrested. He couldn’t think of a single reason why his former boss would want to meet with him out of the blue, especially in light of recent events. He called Mandy to warn her to dispose of the lab in Westchester if need be, but she didn’t answer. He left a cryptically worded message. He called the attending physician at the Westchester Slave Hospital to tell him that keeping Nora on her Cure regimen for the foreseeable future should prevent a relapse of her symptoms. He bought a train ticket to the city, where he put the rest of the supply of new treatment in Peter Petrelli’s old apartment, empty but still being rented by the Petrelli family, and left a voice mail for Hiro telling him where to find it in case Mohinder disappeared. Having made all the preparations he could think of, he set off to visit the lion’s den.

 

On the train down to DC, Mohinder wondered if there was anyone else he wanted to say goodbye to. It was pathetic that he might be riding to his death, even now, but had no one to call. Even those gloomy thoughts, however, did not make him any more eager to face his meeting with Alicia Madden.

 

The taxi ride from the airport to the Department of Homeland Security was long but blessedly uneventful. The Department had come a long way from humble roots. Once housed on two stories of a thirty-story rectangular pile of government offices, it had since rated its own compound not far from the Mall. Perfectly-manicured lawns stretched eighty yards from the main building to the tall fence that kept away terrorists and tourists alike. Guards stood stationed at small towers at each corner of the compound, giving visitors the unmistakable impression of entering a prison.

 

After a through security search, Mohinder was waved through the entrance at the front gate and escorted through an underground walkway not to Madden’s tenth-floor office, but to a conference room in the basement. Now Mohinder was sure he was about to disappear.

 

Alicia Madden was already seated at the conference table, talking to a young black man Mohinder didn’t recognize. She stood when he entered, and went to shake his hand.

 

“How has the private sector been treating you, Doctor Suresh?” she asked warmly, and gestured for him to sit.

 

“Well, thank you.”

 

“I’m sure. But we’ve missed you, you know.”

 

“That’s very kind,” said Mohinder, sitting and watching Madden do the same. The man remained standing, watching Mohinder warily and with evident recognition. He was starting to make Mohinder nervous.

 

Madden smiled at Mohinder briefly, charmingly, before speaking again. “We have a project we’d like your help on, Doctor Suresh.” She paused for Mohinder’s reaction; he merely raised an eyebrow. “Thanks to you, we have a way to prevent evolved humans from using their powers. Now we need a way to allow those who agree to work with us to regain their powers.”

 

“To regain…?”

 

“Their powers.” She looked at him and waited.

 

“You want me to create an antidote for Cure?” Mohinder asked in astonishment.

 

“Exactly.”

 

Mohinder blinked at her. “But…”

 

“Yes?” she interrupted smoothly.

 

This had to be a trick. They must have found out about his new discovery, somehow, and were hoping to catch him in the act. “I don’t know if that’s even possible,” he said, trying to sound appropriately skeptical.

 

“If anyone can do it, you can.” She sounded so sure. That couldn’t be a good sign.

 

“Madam Secretary, I’m not sure you understand the complexity of—.”

 

“Doctor Suresh.” She leaned forward. “An antidote could be very important for this country’s future. It would make you an essential element in the Department of Homeland Security. And that distinction could cover all manner of sins.”

 

Mohinder managed to keep eye contact, but he knew she could see how frightened he was. There was no mistaken the ashy-ness of his skin, his breathing, quick and shallow. Sins? She knew. She had to know what he’d been doing in Westchester, with Hiro’s group, all of it. Did she want him to admit it before she had him arrested?

 

“And,” she continued. “I’d like to give you a little… incentive.” She gestured to the silent man, who went out the room’s other door. He returned almost immediately, leading a man whose hands were cuffed in front of him. Mohinder froze when he saw who it was: Sylar.

 

So it _was_ over. They knew about him. Sylar had told them he was a traitor. Mohinder sank lower in his chair, not taking his eyes off of Sylar.

 

Madden looked expectantly from Mohinder to Sylar and back again. “Do you know who this is?” she asked.

 

“Yes,” Mohinder whispered.

 

“Good,” said Madden with a satisfied nod. “We thought that you may be able to use his DNA to help you, since he’s so very special.”

 

Mohinder blinked at her.

 

“Think of it as a gift. A gesture of our sincerity,” she said warmly. She stood and waved a hand at Sylar, as if displaying a particularly impressive hunting trophy. “Once you’re done with his DNA, you can do whatever you want to him. Keep him to study. Have him disposed of. Whatever you want. I know you’ve been waiting for this for a long time.”

 

Mohinder watched her carefully, waiting for the other shoe to drop, but she just smiled pleasantly. If Madden had talked to Sylar—and she must have talked to Sylar—then she had to know that Mohinder had already developed an antidote for his Cure. His eyes flicked to Sylar, who has his eyes fixed on the floor. Madden had to be playing with him. It was impossible that Sylar had actually kept his silence, had _protected_ Mohinder.

 

Sylar shifted, drawing Madden’s attention away from Mohinder’s hesitance. “I’m not the spoils of war,” he growled.

 

Madden smiled and patted Sylar on the cheek, which Mohinder thought was more disturbing than if she’d slapped him. “He’s quite safe,” she said. She reached for Sylar’s hand, and held it out so Mohinder could see the tattoo on his wrist. “He’s had your very excellent treatment, Doctor Suresh, so you should be able to study him without difficulty.”

 

“I….” Mohinder stared at Sylar, who was still stubbornly refusing to meet his eyes.

 

“Yes?” Madden prompted him.

 

“I’ll do it.”  
********

 

The carpet was soft under his feet. Plush. He was in the residence. He was in the residence, and it was blessedly warm and quiet. Nathan opened his eyes.

 

Peter was sitting on the floor, drawing in a sketch book. He wore no shirt, just a pair of pajama pants slung low on hips that were slight, but not too-sharp emaciated as they’d been last time Nathan had seen Peter. Nathan stood suddenly. Peter looked up at him, not alarmed, just curious.

 

“Where’ve you been?” Nathan asked.

 

“I went to see Mom,” Peter said, and returned to his drawing.

 

“Oh.” Nathan moved over to the couch, taking the seat closest to his brother. “How is she?”

 

“Don’t be facetious.” Peter looked up from his drawing once more and regarded Nathan critically. “You look tired.”

 

“I am tired, Peter. But I’m glad you’re here.”

 

“Look.” Peter held up his pad to show a pencil sketch of Nathan, slumped in a chair, his suit coat thrown over the arm, his tie loose, face blank in sleep.

 

“That’s… good,” Nathan said in surprise. “When did you learn to draw?”

 

Peter shrugged and climbed up next to Nathan on the couch, curling against his shoulder, as if they sat like this every night. It was such a comfortable feeling to have Peter nestled up against him: a comforting feeling, not demanding, but offering. Nathan sighed.

 

“This is a dream, isn’t it?”

 

Peter shrugged again, this time apologetically.

 

“Is it your dream or mine?” Nathan asked.

 

Peter ran a hand through his hair, which was close-cropped. “Yours. You always hated the bangs.”

 

Nathan tried a small smile, but it wouldn’t stick.

 

Peter noticed. “You seem stressed.”

 

“I’m the leader of the free world now.”

 

Peter gave him one of his patented momentary half-smiles, and sat up on his knees on the couch. “Pretty untidy for a world leader,” he said pulling at Nathan’s tie.

 

Irritated, Nathan pulled the tie off over his head and tossed it toward the chair. “It’s been a bad couple of days,” he muttered.

 

“Yeah it has,” Peter said. He began to undo Nathan’s shirt, efficiently tackling each button until he could push the shirt off his brother’s shoulders and drop it onto the floor. “Poor baby.” Peter climbed up behind Nathan to perch on the back of the couch, knees on either side of his brother. “So overworked.” He pressed his thumbs into Nathan’s shoulders, and Nathan closed his eyes, in bliss. “So underappreciated.” Peter’s fingers found tight muscles at the base of Nathan’s neck, and began to knead skillfully.

 

Nathan thought he might expire from pure physical pleasure. “That feels good.”

 

“I know.” He could practically hear Peter’s smile. “Sydney had me learn this. She wanted me to ‘expand my skill set.’” Nathan blanched, but Peter ignored the reaction, and kept his fingers working the tight muscles of Nathan’s shoulder. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong, Mister President?”

 

Under the influence of Peter’s talented fingers and gentle prodding, he relented. “I tried this time, Peter. I did,” he said softly.

 

“I know.”

 

“I tried to keep you safe.”

 

Peter’s hands paused for a moment, then resumed. “I’m not good at being kept,” he said.

 

Nathan pulled forward, away from Peter’s distracting hands, so he could look at his brother. “What exactly am I supposed to do now?” he asked.

 

“There’s nothing you _can_ do,” Peter said. He sounded almost apologetic.

 

“There’s always something, Peter. Just tell me what it is.”

 

“Just relax and let me work.” Peter pulled Nathan back by his shoulders and resumed his massage. “You’re knotting yourself up as fast as I can unknot you. Relax.”

 

Nathan let several moments go by in silence, reveling in the feel of Peter’s hands on him. Then guilt began to gnaw at him, and he had to speak again. “It’s not like I have nothing to worry about.”

 

“What are you worried about?”

 

“You, for starters.”

 

“What else?”

 

“The country. A country that I’m responsible for.” In the silence, that sounded pretentious. “It’s a big job,” Nathan explained.

 

After a moment, Peter said, “I used to have kind of a stressful job.”

 

Nathan could almost feel his shoulders re-knotting as Peter spoke.

 

“Not much free time. Not many friends. But we found ways to unwind.”

 

Nathan did not like the way this conversation was going. “Peter, don’t,” he said firmly. Peter responded by running his hands down Nathan’s back, finding muscles knotted behind his shoulder blades, and pressing firmly with this thumbs. Nathan’s head fell back, and he forgot what he’d been protesting.

 

“When you have nothing, there aren’t a lot of choices of ways to entertain yourself. Your body isn’t even your own, but sometimes…” Peter licked the side of Nathan’s neck from where it joined his shoulder up to the back of his ear. “It can bring you pleasure. You find all the ways it can bring you pleasure.”

 

Peter’s ministrations were giving Nathan a warm, profoundly _good_ feeling, and as much as he hated what he was hearing, he was starting to get hard, to respond to the feel of Peter’s skin on his, his hands hitting just the right spots. Nathan tried to sit forward, but Peter sank his teeth into his neck: not hard enough to break this skin, just enough to let Nathan know he was there. Nathan stopped pulling away, decided to ride out the storm, and let his head drop back again.

Peter slid down the couch’s backrest, his legs splayed untidily around Nathan’s sides. “I had friends, other slaves that I played with,” he purred in Nathan’s ear. “I learned this.” Peter dug his fingers into the long muscles of Nathan’s back, wringing out the tension at either side of his spine.

 

“Shut up.” Nathan was having trouble reconciling Peter’s words with how his body felt right now: relaxed and excited at once. If only Peter would stop talking, he would be as blissfully comfortable as he’d ever been in his life.

 

Peter pressed the heel of one hand into Nathan’s lower back, while the other hand reached around to undo Nathan’s pants. “I just wanted so badly to feel something real with someone I didn’t hate.”

 

“Peter, shut up.” Nathan said, proud at the strength of his voice in the face of Peter’s onslaught. Peter managed to unbutton Nathan’s pants one-handed. No boxers, so Peter pulled the pants down as bet they could, letting them gather at Nathan’s thighs, then pulled his hands back up to Nathan’s back. Nathan hissed in frustration as his erection strained against his belly in the cool air.

 

“It felt good that someone would care about my pleasure, would give me something, instead of taking taking taking.” Peter pressed down _hard_ with his thumbs on the big muscles at the top of Nathan’s shoulders, and even as his body leaned into it, Nathan wanted to pull away, wanted to stop listening, wanted to shut Peter up.

 

“Peter,” he said, his teeth clenched hard.

 

“But most of all, I did it because I missed having you,” he whispered. Peter’s was close, right beside Nathan’s ear, and he brought his hand to his mouth, licking a wet stripe down the width of his palm. He reached down with that hand and wrapped it around Nathan’s cock, fisting it loosely, the lightest ghost of a grip.

 

Nathan almost groaned in relief, but he managed to hold it back. He thrust up into Peter’s hand, and Peter grabbed his hip with his free hand to stop Nathan from moving. “Relax,” he said.

 

Peter took a firmer grip and began to stroke Nathan slowly, agonizingly slowly, starting at the root, up to ghost his thumb over the head, and back down. Impatiently, Nathan covered Peter’s hand with his own, squeezing harder, moving faster. He felt Peter’s legs clench around his sides, felt Peter’s erection press against the small of his back through the soft cotton of Peter’s pants.

 

Peter rocked against him gently as their hands stroked Nathan together. He leaned in close, fitting his chin into the crook of Nathan’s neck. “I’ll come back to you,” Peter whispered.

 

Then, suddenly, Nathan awoke with a crick in his neck, wedged awkwardly into the sofa, squeezing a pillow between his legs and achingly, painfully hard. He was in the residence, really this time. Someone was tapping him on the shoulder. Nathan vowed that he would personally have killed whoever had just woken him up.

 

“Dad. Dad!” a voice hissed in his ear. He turned over to see Simon standing over him.

 

Damn. No killing, then. “What?” he growled.

 

“Monty had a nightmare,” Simon said. Nathan stared stupidly at him until he continued. “Mom’s asleep. Can’t you do something?”

 

This problem was evidently not going to go away on its own. Nathan sat up, holding a pillow over his lap. “What’s wrong?”

 

“It’s Monty,” Simon explained again, slowly, as if he were talking to an imbecile. “He’s been having nightmares again.”

 

“He has those a lot?”

 

Simon shrugged.

 

“About what?”

 

Simon muttered something unintelligible.

 

“About what?” Nathan repeated more firmly.

 

“You,” Simon said. “He thinks you’re going to get hurt.”

 

“He told you this?”

 

Simon shrugged. “He just gets scared and wants to do something stupid all the time. Can’t you talk to him?”

 

Nathan stood with a sigh, wondering what he could do to comfort his sons. He hardly knew either of them. Coming to a realization, he sat back down.

 

“Simon, come here.” Simon took a step closer, and Nathan laid on hand on his shoulder. “It’s your responsibility to keep your brother safe, do you understand? Even from himself.” Simon’s blue eyes, Heidi’s eyes, narrowed as he took that in. Nathan squeezed his shoulder. “You go in there and you make him understand that there’s nothing to be afraid of. Okay?”

 

“Okay,” Simon said, and with a suspicious, almost accusing glance at his father, trotted back to his room.

 

After he was gone, Nathan laid back down on the couch and closed his eyes, but the dream didn’t miraculously return. He knew there would be no more sleep for him tonight.  
******************

 

Peter woke up sweating. No one was running into the room, though, so he must not have been screaming. He didn’t remember a nightmare, and come to think of it, this sweat seemed more like the need-a-cold-shower type than any other. The erection tenting his boxers might also have been a clue. It seemed as if there was something important about the dream he should remember, but it was gone now.

 

It was dark in the room, except for a little city light filtering through the curtains, so Peter fumbled for the switch on the beside lamp. If the sun had already set, Peter had been asleep much longer than he thought. Sure enough, the clock on the nightstand read quarter after nine. There was also a note next to the clock:

 

_You looked so peaceful I hated to wake you. There’s towels in the bathroom and some clothes you can borrow. Come find me in the kitchen when you’re cleaned up. –Lonzo._

 

Peter ran a hand over his face, which felt positively gritty. Freshening up was definitely in order before facing Lonzo or Celia again. The water in the shower was blissfully warm, and Peter’s thoughts returned to his dream. Memory of it was just out of reach, but he could imagine what might have gotten him hard. _Nathan._ The thought of being able to forgive him, to be with him, to be his again. Peter hadn’t allowed himself to consider the possibility of being whole again, together with Nathan, but once he let the idea in, he wanted it very badly indeed. He gave into the fantasy of being with Nathan long enough to jerk off, bringing himself quickly to the edge with long, firm strokes, coming with a quick and wonderful shudder. Then he put fantasies of Nathan aside and prepared to deal with reality. He had to get back to Westchester somehow.

 

After getting dressed, Peter made his way to the kitchen, where Lonzo was sitting at the table reading the _New York Times._ “Hello Sleeping Beauty,” he said when he saw Peter. “Are you hungry?”

 

“Starving.” Peter sat down at the table.

 

Lonzo smiled at him and set down the newspaper. “I got you an appetizer. I thought you might need it.” He nodded to Peter’s side of the table, where there was a glass of water and a small white pill.

 

“Oh. Thanks,” Peter said quickly. He’d forgotten that he should be worried about Cure. If he hadn’t had Mohinder’s medicine, it would damn well have been the first thing in his mind after running away.

 

When Lonzo got up and headed further into the kitchen, Peter slid the pill into his pocket. “Did you not bring a supply with you?” Lonzo called over his shoulder.

 

“No,” Peter said sheepishly. Lonzo must think he was ridiculously irresponsible.

 

“What were you going to do if…?” Lonzo shook his head with a worried frown. “Never mind. I’ll get you some to take with you. Don’t let me forget.” He trailed off into muttered Portuguese.

 

In a moment Lonzo returned with two plates and set one in front of Peter: it looked like honey-glazed ham on a bed of spinach and some sort of pale yellow risotto. “Did you make this?” Peter asked, prepared to be mildly impressed.

 

“The cook made it,” Lonzo explained. “I put it in the microwave.”

 

Lonzo walked away to get them silverware, and Peter turned his attention to the _Times_ Lonzo had been reading. The headline read, “Joe Devlin: a nation remembers our fallen President.”

 

Peter read the headline three times, and each time he grew more confused. He was almost afraid to read the article, so he asked Lonzo, “What’s with this article on President Devlin?”

 

Returning with two handfuls of silverware, Lonzo looked quizzically at him. “You haven’t been watching the news? Of course not, you’ve been on the run.” Lonzo set down the forks and knives, grabbed another paper, one with yesterday’s date, from a shelf next to the door and set it on the table in front of Peter. “Double Assassination,” the headline ran. “President stabbed, Vice President dies at hospital.”

 

It had been a long time since Peter had had a civics class, but he vaguely recalled something. “If both the President and Vice President die, then doesn’t…”

 

“The Speaker of the House,” Lonzo finished. “That’s right. That’s our new President, Peter.” He flipped today’s paper to page two, where Nathan stared solemnly out at Peter. “Bad new for us slaves, if Petrelli’s record is anything to go on.”

 

Peter grabbed the fork Lonzo had brought him and shoveled risotto into his mouth to avoid having to comment. Nathan was the President? It some sick way, it wasn’t a surprising development, but it sent Peter into a mind-numbing panic.

 

Luckily, Lonzo was polite enough to turn his attention to his own meal for a few minutes, giving Peter space to go quietly insane. Peter’s earlier revelation meant nothing now. He couldn’t go back to Westchester; he didn’t even know how he could get back to Nathan at all. Without Nathan, what else was there? Peter’s entire life was gone. He knew no one, and all his old friends were hopelessly out of reach. He didn’t even know if any of his old friends were still alive, still free. He was sure Celia’s cook was excellent, but the food which he shoveled into his mouth, bite after frantic bite, suddenly tasted like ashes to Peter.

 

After a few minutes, Lonzo put down his fork, leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms over his chest, and just _looked_ at Peter. Peter kept eating until there was no more food on his plate, hoping that the end of the risotto would coincide with the end of his panic. Only after there was nothing left to eat did he dare to look at Lonzo.

 

“So what are you going to do?” Lonzo asked.

 

That was an excellent question, which is probably why it irritated Peter so much. “I don’t know,” he said. He had no plan. Nathan had been his plan.

 

“You want to know what I think?”

 

“I don’t know, Lonzo. Do I?” Peter was ashamed at being so snappy, but Lonzo was apparently unfazed.

 

“I think you’re the sort who needs someone to need him,” he said simply. “Look at you. You’re a mess when you try to take care of yourself. But when someone else needs your help… Well.” He shook his head. “Look what happened at Sydney’s party. You put yourself in danger to help a guy you didn’t even know.”

 

Peter managed a small smile. “You’ve got me figured out, don’t you?”

 

“Why did you come here, Peter? What do you expect me to do?”

 

“I don’t want to put you in danger, Lonzo.” With a sudden clarity, Peter realized how tenuous his situation was. He didn’t have any identification papers on him, but the tattoo on his wrist was enough to make anyone suspicious. If anyone started asking questions not only would Lonzo be in danger, but Nathan could be threatened, too. He could almost hear what Nathan would say: _Speaker of the House wasn’t an impressive enough title, I had to go and become President before you’d realize how important appearances are?_ “God, that’s the last thing I want,” Peter said. He stumbled to his feet, nearly knocking over his chair. “I should go. If Celia finds out I’m a runaway—.”

 

“Sit down, Peter. I’ve let you stay this long. Another hour won’t hurt.” Lonzo pressed Peter back down into his chair, and Peter let himself be guided. He didn’t have a place to run to anyway, he realized. Out on the street, Homeland Security might pick him up. They would find out he was a runaway, and if they could trace anything back to Nathan... No, Peter couldn’t let that happen.

 

“Do you think your owner’s going to send hunters after you?” Lonzo asked.

 

Peter shook his head. “No chance,” Peter said, hoping it was true. “He’ll want to find me himself.” Unless he decided Peter was a loose end that had to be wrapped up. Nathan wouldn’t have him killed, probably, but Peter didn’t think his brother was above sending out a special task force to bring him back where Nathan could keep an eye on him. That would be one solution to Peter’s problem, but the idea almost sent Peter into another panic attack. He wanted to be with Nathan, yes, but that alternative sounded eerily like the slavery from which Nathan had rescued him in the first place.

 

“Well then, we’ve got time for dessert.” Lonzo took their plates away and returned with two bowls, two spoons, and a plastic container. “Key lime gelato,” he said. “The cook is pretty amazing.” He scooped a serving into each of the two bowls. Peter hadn’t had good food in a long time, not since Sydney had started starving him, but not even gelato—and it was excellent gelato—could stop his mind from racing around the problem of his immediate future. He couldn’t go back to Westchester now that Nathan wasn’t there. He couldn’t seek out Nathan at all. He had lost Nathan again. He needed a new plan.

 

“Peter,” Lonzo said suddenly.

 

“Hughn?” Peter looked up at him, mouth full of spoon.

 

“What did you do before you were a slave?” Lonzo asked.

 

“I was a nurse,” Peter answered warily.

 

Lonzo smiled and leaned back in his chair. “Mmm hmmm.”

 

“What?” Peter managed an unsure smile. Lonzo was trying to help, he reminded himself, and he couldn’t afford to burn bridges right now.

 

“Kind of fits in with my lives-to-help-others theory, doesn’t it,” Lonzo said smugly.

 

Peter shrugged. He didn’t feel particularly capable of helping anyone at the moment.

 

“What kind of nurse?” Lonzo asked.

 

“Hospice care.”

 

“Hm,” said Lonzo, and delicately ate another spoonful of gelato.

 

“What?” Peter asked, exasperated.

 

“I can picture you doing that, is all. Peter…” Lonzo toyed with his bowl, as if deciding whether to continue or not. Finally, he set his bowl down and spoke. “Celia donates to this non-profit company in Atlanta that buys slaves who’ve been injured or… It’s kind of like a rest home, a rehabilitation facility for slaves. They rescue as many as they can.”

 

Peter frowned. “I didn’t even know such places existed.”

 

“Well, one does, at least. It’s privately funded.” Lonzo shrugged. “You’ve seen what kind of things can happen to slaves, Peter. It’s not a pleasant place to visit.”

 

Yes, Peter knew all too well what kind of things could happen. “You’re been there?” he asked.

 

“Celia visits with the other donors every couple months,” Lonzo explained. “You know, Celia’s not the only one who thinks it’s wrong to treat slaves like animals. Her family has had servants all her life, and she doesn’t see why slaves should have any fewer rights.”

 

Lonzo was talking so earnestly Peter felt like he should understand more from Lonzo than his words were letting on. Maybe it was residual stupor from his earlier panic, but if there was a hidden message here, Peter wasn’t getting it. “Why are you telling me this?” he asked.

 

“It’s hard to get medical staff for the facility. It’s about the last place anyone would want to work, but…” He smiled hopefully at Peter. “Would you like to work there? Celia would buy your contract, if you agreed to work at the facility. We could—.”

 

“No,” Peter said quickly.

 

“Why not?” Lonzo asked, sitting back in surprise.

 

“I’m a class four slave now,” he said quickly. That was true enough. “Celia couldn’t buy me.”

 

“Sure she could,” Lonzo said. “She has a type ten permit. She can buy any slave she wants.”

 

“What does she need a type ten permit for?” Peter was genuinely surprised. Type fours weren’t very valuable, and Celia didn’t seem the type of person to settle for low quality.

 

“To buy any slave she wants,” Lonzo said significantly. “She has a soft spot for strays. You two have a lot in common.”

 

Peter shoved his bowl away. He felt sick to his stomach. “She can’t buy me.”

 

“Come on, Peter. If you’re a type four, you can’t possibly be that valuable. Celia can afford you.”

 

“No, I mean…” Peter took a deep breath. He hated to lie to Lonzo, but it was for both of their own good. And misrepresenting the truth wasn’t _really_ a lie. “He’d never sell me.”

 

“Your new owner? Who is this guy? You’re willing to—.” He lowered his voice. “To run away from him, but not to let Celia buy you legitimately? Who is it?”

 

“I can’t tell you.”

 

“Why not?” Lonzo asked. Peter could tell he was getting exasperated as Peter met each suggestion with a denial or an evasion.

 

“I just can’t,” Peter said miserably.

 

“Peter, I’m trying to help you.” Lonzo scooted his chair closer to Peter so he could put a hand on his shoulder. It was a protective gesture, and it reminded Peter painfully of Nathan. “You are in trouble here, in case you haven’t noticed. You think you can survive on your own out there? What exactly do you want me to do?”

 

Peter shoved his hand away. “I don’t know!”

 

“Hello gentlemen,” said Celia from the doorway. Peter lowered his eyes, heart racing. He hoped she hadn’t been listening for long.

 

“Celia!” Lonzo stood gracefully, as if he hadn’t just been in the midst of a near-shouting match, and pulled out a chair for his owner.

 

“Ma’am,” Peter muttered, and stood to acknowledge her. She just smiled at him and took the seat Lonzo had offered. Peter was suddenly, intensely reminded of nights when, as a child, he’d insist on staying up until his parents came home. His mother, returning from a party, floor-length dress, expensive jewelry, would find him in the kitchen with the nanny, eating cookies, and spend a few precious minutes with him before shooing him up to bed. Celia was probably part of Angela’s generation: in any case, she could only be a few years younger than Angela was, or would have been now, Peter reminded himself.

 

“Looks like dinner met with your approval, yes?” Celia asked, eying the empty plates.

 

“Yes ma’am,” Peter said.

 

“And we haven’t eaten all of the gelato yet,” Lonzo put in. “Would you like some?”

 

“Thank you dear,” Celia said with a brilliant smile.

 

Lonzo got up to fetch another bowl. As Peter watched him go, his eyes began to burn; it was the same painful sensation he’d felt before. He rubbed his eyes with the back of one hand, but the feeling didn’t go away.

 

“Peter?”

 

Celia was talking to him. He couldn’t ignore her: that would be rude. He forced himself to open his eyes and look at her, despite the pain. Peter blinked. He thought he was seeing things at first, but he thought he knew the difference between that and… something more. Every new power, each one of the strange things that used to happen to him, felt different, but they all had something in common. He saw Celia glowing with a pale blue light. It seemed to shine out of her pores, ghosting over her body everywhere skin was exposed.

 

“I…” Peter began, and stopped. What would he say? If this was a new ability, he couldn’t tell them. He couldn’t let them know his abilities were working.

 

Lonzo arrived back at the table and set a clean bowl down in front of Celia. Lonzo was glowing, too. He was a pale orange, very faint, but definitely glowing.

 

Celia leaned toward Peter, looking concerned. “What’s wrong?”

 

Peter couldn’t say anything. The burning was less now, but the faint glow coming from Lonzo and Celia was quite distracting enough to prevent him from answering. Lonzo put a hand on his arm, and when Peter looked down, he saw he was glowing too: a bright, alive white which was slowly fading to blue.

 

“Peter? Are you okay?” Lonzo asked.

 

“I think I’m…” Peter began.

 

Suddenly, the glowing got a lot brighter: his own, one of the others’, he couldn’t tell, but the blue glow seemed brighter to him than the incandescent lights overhead. The burning in his eyes was back, but it wasn’t just his eyes anymore. It felt like someone was prying open his ribcage and pouring white-hot light into his chest cavity, so much light that it spilled out of his hands, out of his mouth. He pulled back from it frantically, knocking over his chair, toppling to the floor.

 

“What in—?” That was Lonzo’s voice, and Peter heard the sound of shattering ceramic.

 

“No!” Celia cried, and then the light went away, and the room was suddenly very quiet.

 

When the burning stopped and Peter could open his eyes again, he saw Lonzo squatting in front of Celia, holding her hands and watching her face with great concern. They were speaking rapidly in Portuguese. Lonzo shot him a worried look before continuing his conversation with Celia.

 

“Hey,” Peter said. “So I can understand, please? What _was_ that?”

 

Lonzo stood and offered Peter a hand up. Peter grudgingly let Lonzo pull him to his feet, but Lonzo kept a firm grip on his arm. “Has anything like that ever happened to you before?” Lonzo demanded.

 

“Not quite like that,” Peter said weakly. His eyes were still watering, but at least the burning had faded. Lonzo was regarding him suspiciously, and hadn’t let go of his arm.

 

Celia looked at her hands, then at Peter. “Your ability, Peter. Do you know what it is?”

 

“Ability?” Peter tried to look innocent.

 

“Yes. You’re a slave because you’re on the list,” she said. Her voice had the commanding tone that said she knew he knew what she was talking about. “So why are you on the list? What can you do?”

 

Peter said nothing, and Celia’s puzzled expression suddenly solidified into something resembling understanding. “You’re blue, Peter,” she said. Peter looked down, and saw that he was still glowing a pale shade of blue. “You can see me glowing, too, can’t you? What color am I?” Celia asked.

 

There wasn’t really much point in denying it. If she was glowing, if she could see the same glow he saw, she probably knew more about it than he did. “Blue,” Peter said.

 

“You must be—what did he call it… an empath,” Celia said excitedly. Peter felt a little shiver go through him. The last person to describe him that way had been Claude, years ago. For Celia to know that such a talent existed, much less to identify it, meant that she knew more than Peter had suspected. “Can you use other people’s abilities, Peter?”

 

“I don’t understand,” Lonzo broke in. “How are your powers active?”

 

“I don’t know,” Peter said quickly, but even as he said it he knew how bogus it sounded.

 

“Peter? Are you… Off the Cure?” Celia asked.

 

“That would be impossible.” Peter hoped he sounded confident of that.

 

Lonzo and Celia exchanged a look. “So you aren’t taking Cure,” Lonzo said.

 

Peter shook his head, almost imperceptibly.

 

“That… flash. It must have been feedback of some kind,” Celia said slowly. “Does that always happen when you absorb a new ability?”

 

“I don’t… What ability?” Peter wasn’t even sure he wanted to know.

 

“My ability,” Celia said finally. “I can see special abilities. I can see them most strongly when they’re being used, but I can see them all the time. Even if they’re blocked.”

 

“Like mine,” explained Lonzo.

 

“So, I understand why you have an ability,” Peter said to Lonzo. “You shouldn’t have one,” he said to Celia.

 

“What, you don’t know anyone whose money or power kept them off the list?” Celia asked with a raised eyebrow.

 

“I really do,” Peter said, shaking his head. Nathan again. The President of the United States. Now _there_ was power.

 

“Then you shouldn’t act so surprised,” said Celia. “I couldn’t do what I’m doing now if I was a slave.”

 

“And what is it that you’re doing now?” Peter asked suspiciously. He was suddenly debating the wisdom of even talking about this, and a quiet but quickly growing voice was telling him to just run.

 

Celia looked to Lonzo, and he looked back at her reassuringly. “He’s all right, Celia,” he said softly.

 

“Not all of us think that it’s right, what’s being done to people with abilities,” she said. “I’ve always understood the importance of helping others with gifts. Of finding them, and protecting them.” She rested a hand on Lonzo’s arm gently. “We may not be able to change what’s being done, but we can help when we can.”

 

“Help how?” Peter asked. Images of infrared goggles and taser darts came to mind.

 

“Escaped slaves are vulnerable, Peter,” Lonzo said. “They need help. A place to stay, a way to get Cure. Lots of things.”

 

“So you’re like… the underground railroad?” Peter ventured.

 

Lonzo gave a brief laugh. “Exactly,” he said.

 

“Peter, does your owner know your powers are working?” Celia asked.

 

Peter tried to think of a lie that wouldn’t put him in danger. Lonzo saved him the trouble. “He ran away, Celia.” Peter gave him an incredulous look, but Lonzo just shrugged. Peter couldn’t really see how the revelation could put him in hotter water than he was currently in, and anyway, Celia didn’t seem surprised.

 

“You might want to work on your poker face, Peter. No one who’d buy a slave like you at an auction would let you out of his sight,” Celia said, almost sadly. Peter knew she was right. “What are your plans now?”

 

“I… I hadn’t really thought about it.” Or, more accurately, it was all he’d been thinking of, but he hadn’t come up with any intelligent ideas.

 

“You won’t stay free out there with your ability,” Lonzo said. “Someone will find you. What if you come up against someone whose power is conspicuous?”

 

Or can’t be controlled… Like Ted? “I’ll stay away from people. I have to get out of the city.” He’d go where Nathan couldn’t find him. Where no one could find him. Canada, maybe. Somewhere remote. He started for the door, not knowing where he was going, but no longer able to resist the urge to move.

 

Lonzo grabbed his arm again. “Peter, wait!”

 

“Wait for what? I can’t stay here and put you both in danger. Nath—. My owner will be after me soon,” Peter said, trying to pull his arm free and failing. “I have to keep moving!”

 

“You’re right,” Celia said, and came to stand next to them. “You need to run, but you’ll be safer if you’re not on your own.” Peter stared at her. “There are some friends of mine,” she said slowly. “They might be able to help you… I think you would fit in well with them.”

 

Again, Peter’s thoughts went to isotopes and mysterious tracking systems. “What kind of friends?” he asked.

 

“Other runaways,” Lonzo said. “Strays. Trouble makers. You should fit in well.” He smiled at Peter, and Peter couldn’t help but smile back.

 

“They can help keep you hidden,” Celia said. “They’ve helped others. And if you wanted,” she added, with a knowing glance at Lonzo, “I’m sure you could find a way to help them, too.”

 

Peter closed his eyes. He couldn’t go back to Nathan yet, as much as he wanted to. He had a chance at something else, though. Destiny was handing him a new path. “What do I need to do?”

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mohinder deals with a captive Sylar, the Petrellis attend a funeral, and Hiro’s team receives an unexpected visitor.

Mohinder’s lab in the Homeland Security building looked almost exactly like the one Thompson had given him to work with Molly Walker. He wondered if people like Thompson and Nathan and Secretary Madden had a tab in their address book for contractors who specialized in building secret genetics labs.

 

They’d put Sylar in a room attached to the lab, a Plexiglas cell with a locked door. Sylar had been on his bunk when Mohinder arrived, curled up on his side facing the wall. He didn’t move when a white-jacketed lab assistant escorted Mohinder in, showed him the security code to get into Sylar’s cell, gave him a Homeland Security ID badge.

 

Mohinder took stock of the office after the lab assistant left. Tools, equipment, chemicals, noting the function of each item. His eyes kept straying back to the cell where Sylar lay unmoving. He went to the laptop on one of the lab tables. There on the hard drive were archives of his research, charts and records, as if he’d only left the Department yesterday.

 

Sylar still wasn’t moving. Mohinder was fairly sure the man was breathing, but he needed to be awake if Mohinder was going to find out what exactly he’d told Secretary Madden. There was no way to know if they were watching, somehow, or listening. Mohinder imagined there had to be security monitors, but if there were, he hadn’t found them.

 

He hated the idea of going into Sylar’s cell, but if he wanted to reduce his chances of being overheard, he couldn’t very well yell through the Plexiglas. He pressed in the code to unlock the door, and went in.

 

“Sylar,” he called from the doorway. Then, louder, “Sylar!” No response. Reluctantly, Mohinder took a few steps closer, gingerly reached out a hand and shook the prone man. At last, Sylar stirred, squinting up at Mohinder in apparent confusion. “Wake up,” Mohinder said impatiently. Now that he was sure Sylar wasn’t going to try to attack him, he felt silly for being afraid. “I need to know what you told them.”

 

“Nothing,” Sylar said. His voice sounded hoarse. “I didn’t tell them anything.”

 

“Surely you told them something. What did you say?” Mohinder demanded.

 

Sylar seemed startled at his vehemence. Then a look of recognition dawned on his face and his eyes darted momentarily to the ceiling. “I told them the truth,” he said. His voice was a little stronger. “That I was the ring leader. That it was my plan, and that I recruited some lackeys to distract the guards while I got what I came for.”

 

“There’s no need to—.” Mohinder waved a hand in irritation. “They’re not listening. Tell me what they know.” Suddenly, Sylar pressed a hand to his head, wincing. “What’s wrong with you?”

 

“I don’t know,” Sylar said, rubbing his forehead. “I feel terrible. My head hurts.”

 

“I’m not here to make you comfortable,” Mohinder said. He didn’t really think Sylar had forgotten that, but it did make him feel a little better to say it. “I’m here to learn what I can from your DNA and apply it to a worthy cause, and if I have to hurt you to do that, Sylar, then I’m prepared to do so.”

 

“I wish you’d call me Gabriel,” Sylar said softly.

 

Mohinder stared at him for a moment, shocked at the man’s audacity—he acted as if they were friends. Mohinder drew himself up and spoke a little louder for the benefit of anyone listening in. “I’m going to draw some spinal fluid,” Mohinder said. “Sit up.”

 

Sylar dragged himself upright, wincing again as he did so, while Mohinder uncased the needle. Sylar offered no resistance, but Mohinder approached him warily, ready to call for help at the first sign of trouble. Sylar did nothing, so Mohinder pushed his head forward and readied the needle at the top of his spine.

 

“Haven’t we already done this?’ Sylar muttered.

 

“Shut up,” said Mohinder, and stuck in the needle. Sylar didn’t scream this time. Instead, he stifled a whimper. It sounded as if he were trying to be brave. For some reason, Mohinder found that intensely irritating. He all but slammed the cell door behind him as he took his sample out into the lab, and when he returned to work, he felt unaccountably grumpy.

 

Mohinder was vaguely aware of Sylar watching him from the Plexiglas cage, but he didn’t want to give the man the satisfaction of knowing that it bothered him. He tried to ignore the scrutiny as he separated the spinal fluid sample into different containers. By the time he had the first sample under the microscope, he’d almost forgotten he had an audience.

 

“Mohinder!” A shout through the Plexiglas broke his concentration.

 

He turned and glared at Sylar before answering. “What?”

 

“Do you have an aspirin or something in that fancy lab?” Sylar asked.

 

Mohinder glared at him. “Leave me alone,” he growled.

 

Sylar sat down on his bunk. “Nothing?” he asked again. He sounded almost apologetic. It was infuriating.

 

“I am trying to work,” Mohinder snapped. He turned back to his microscope, fully prepared to ignore any further outbursts, but Sylar said nothing more.

 

As the day stretched on, Mohinder began to find the silence unsettling. Sylar watched him through the Plexiglas whenever he was awake. He seemed to sleep a lot. Sometimes, when Mohinder snuck a look, he was holding his head in his hands, as if he was still in pain.

 

He looked so miserable that Mohinder thought of offering him a shot of pain-killer, or at least a pill. He squelched that thought, however, with a quick reminder that he was probably still being watched and recorded and besides, Sylar was his enemy.

 

In any case, he soon had no attention to spare for Sylar. What he was finding in the spinal fluid was much more interesting. At first, it was just interesting. Then the findings started to become alarming. Mohinder had seen test samples from Cure patients before, of course. The tests had never, never looked quite like this. Why did things always have to be so complicated with Sylar?  
********

 

Nathan watched Heidi adjust her hat in the mirror. “I feel like Jackie Kennedy,” she grumbled.

 

“You look great, Heidi.” He pressed quick kiss to her lips before returning to tying his tie. “Besides, it’s a state funeral, not a fashion show.”

 

“At least that made color choice easy,” Heidi muttered. She smoothed out the front of her dress, gave one last look at the mirror, and then left the mirror to Nathan while she gathered her handbag. “Is this a crying event? Or are we being stoic?”

 

“Stoic,” Nathan said firmly. After hearing “be strong for America” from every one of his advisors, he could at least rest easy that his lack of empathy wouldn’t be a political weakness this time. Still, the First Lady had a bit more leeway when it came to showing emotion. “But remember to hug the widows,” he added. “Or you can do kisses.”

 

“The social secretary said kisses on the cheek didn’t poll well. It’s too Italian,” Heidi said primly. “People get the idea we’re into organized crime.”

 

Nathan smiled. He should have realized Heidi would have done some research of her own. She’d mastered the tone—probably borrowed from Angela Petrelli—that was a gentle warning not to treat her like she was helpless. “Of course,” he said. “No kisses, then.”

 

They lapsed into silence for the walk down to the limousine. The joint funeral of the former President and Vice President had been planned to the last detail, and for once Nathan just had to show up and look pretty. He wasn’t expected to speak, so the drive to Arlington was blessedly calm: he and Heidi had the limo to themselves, not counting the Secret Service agent who sat up front.

 

It had been weeks since Nathan had spent any time with Heidi, but the past few days had been especially strained. Nathan had been handling a national crisis, and he had no idea what had been happening with his wife. The simple truth was that she didn’t require his attention; she was part of Nathan’s life that ran flawlessly, always appearing when he needed her, always fulfilling the role of politician’s wife and loving mother. The boys, too, were her domain far more than Nathan’s.

 

“Has Monty ever…” he began, but stopped himself. He was sure Heidi had such a small problem as nightmares under control, but he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Simon’s warning.

 

“Has he what, Nathan?” Heidi asked.

 

“Told you about his nightmares?”

 

Heidi raised her eyebrows in interest. “How do you know about those?”

 

“Simon told me. The other night after you were in bed.”

 

“Hm.” Heidi sat back on the seat and turned her attention to the window, where the Potomac slid lazily by.

 

“Hm what?” Nathan prompted her.

 

“Nathan, your son is scared to death of losing you,” Heidi said finally. “It’s been going on for months, but it’s gotten worse since the assassination.”

 

Nathan was almost afraid to ask. “What do you mean worse?”

 

Heidi narrowed her eyes, and Nathan could tell she was deciding how much to tell him. “It’s an obsession with him,” she began. “Monty comes up with these detailed scenarios of what’s going to happen to you, or to me, or to him and Simon. It’s just paranoia, Nathan. You can understand why he’d be afraid of something happening to his family, after all that’s happened.”

 

 

“Of course.” So that’s all it was. Just simple nightmares that the boy would grow out of. “You think we need to get him a counselor or something?”

 

“No,” Heidi said. “I just think he needs to know his father isn’t going anywhere.”

 

“Of course I’m not,” Nathan snapped. He knew she hadn’t meant it as a jab at his absentee-ism, but it still landed right in the seat of his guilt about shirking his family duties. “How am I supposed to prove that?”

 

“You can’t prove it, Nathan, but you can try to understand how your son feels,” Heidi said. Her voice was level and matter-of-fact, another Angela Petrelli trick to diffuse arguments. “First his Grandpa, then his Uncle Peter, then his Grandma. What Petrelli is left aside from you, Nathan?”

 

Nathan shrugged heavily. He knew how much it hurt him to have lost most of his family in the past few years. It wasn’t that he hadn’t considered how it would affect his boys, it was just… It wasn’t _his_ problem.

 

“And if President Devlin can be killed,” Heidi continued. “Then so can you. So you can see why Monty’s scared.”

 

“I don’t have time to deal with this now, Heidi,” Nathan said. He knew it was a cowardly way to end this conversation, but he wasn’t prepared to do anything else right now.

 

“All right,” Heidi said, still calm: not backing down, just acknowledging Nathan’s decision. “I’ll be the dutiful wife, Nathan. I can be that woman.” She slipped a gloved hand around the crook of his arm. “But if you want your sons to be healthy, you’d better find time to convince them you’re not going anywhere.”

 

It pained Nathan to let her have the last word, but he didn’t reply. He let the silence lapse until they were both sure the conversation was over. “Did you handle flowers?” he asked.

 

“Yes. I signed them from President Petrelli and family.”

 

“Good.” A few more seconds of silence. “Remember to make the sign of the cross. We’re supposed to be practicing Catholics.”

 

“I won’t forget, Nathan,” Heidi said. Now there was a smile in her voice. “Remember, I’ve been the President’s wife as long as you’ve been President. I know what I’m doing.”  
**********

 

They had provided Mohinder with an apartment in the Homeland Security compound. He wondered what would have happened if he’d asked to stay in a hotel instead, but decided he would rather not find out. The night hadn’t been particularly restful; he’d been plagued of images of Sylar alone in his cell, in pain, with theories of why Cure was causing such unpleasant side-effects with him, with ideas of how he could fix the man. Mohinder got out of bed as soon as it was light, less reluctant to get back to his lab than to be alone with his own thoughts any longer.

 

At his lab, Mohinder was greeted by a rumpled-looking lab assistant, and the sight of Sylar passed out on the floor of his cell. “He was sick all night,” the lab assistant explained. “Don’t know what’s wrong with him. You want me to sedate him so he won’t disturb you?”

 

That idea was tempting, but Sylar, face down and unmoving, looked pretty quiet for the time being. “No, I might have to talk to him,” Mohinder sighed.

 

The lab assistant shrugged in an it’s-your-funeral kind of way, and left Mohinder alone.

 

Less than an hour later, Sylar was up and kneeling by the toilet in his cell, dry-heaving violently.

 

Mohinder was comparing gene sequencing from Sylar’s DNA sample to other samples in the database. Each sound from Sylar’s cell dragged Mohinder’s attention back from the theoretical, and Mohinder was definitely regretting having turned down the lab assistant’s offer. At last, he whirled around to face the cell and shouted, “I can’t concentrate with all that retching! Would you just shut up?”

 

Jerking his head up from where it was resting on the edge of the toilet, Sylar regarded him with wide eyes, his face drawn and entirely bloodless, pale as Mohinder had ever seen him. “Sorry,” he croaked. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and dragged himself back to his bunk, where he curled up and lay still.

 

Mohinder turned back to his data, surprised to feel the beginnings of guilt gnawing at his stomach. He had no reason to feel guilty. He refused to pity Sylar. And even if he would—even if he should—he had no time for it. He’d promised Madden an antidote to Cure, and there was only so much he could do to avoid finding an answer he already knew how to find. In the meantime, he could find out what was wrong with Sylar in case sometime in the future, theoretically, the same thing happened to someone worth saving.

 

With fresh eyes, the genetic sequences Mohinder had been pondering last night suddenly seemed much clearer, and much more grim besides. A few hours of methodically comparing Sylar’s DNA to other Cure patients had shown Mohinder the problem. Sylar’s adaptability, which had made his DNA versatile enough for Mohinder to base an algorithm on it, was now killing him.

 

“You look pretty down, Mohinder,” Sylar called from his cell. “Is my DNA not as helpful as you’d hoped?” When Mohinder didn’t respond, Sylar dragged himself upright, leaning against the wall of his cell. “What’s happening?”

 

“I’m working,” Mohinder snapped. He circled another spot on the print-out of Sylar’s DNA sequence.

 

“You’re never too busy to monologue about your discoveries, are you?” Sylar quipped.

 

Mohinder turned around in his chair to glare. Sylar was smiling a weak, watered-down smile, and it made Mohinder want to punch him. Or at least give him another spinal tap. He grabbed his clipboard from the table, the one with the chart that showed Sylar’s cellular deterioration, marched over to Sylar’s cell, stabbed in the security code, wrenched the door open, and shook the chart in Sylar’s face. “This is what I’ve discovered, Sylar. You’re going to die.”

 

Sylar looked past the clipboard at Mohinder and frowned. “What do you mean?”

 

“Cure works by blocking your body’s ability to read genetic code that differs from the norm. For most mutations, this doesn’t interfere with the regular functioning of the organism. But _you_ …” The word was almost a snarl, and Mohinder checked himself from sliding further from scientific detachment into the guilty pleasure of revenge. “With each person you murdered, you altered your genetic code anew. So clever, seeing how things worked.”

 

“But it’s just one ability,” Sylar said in a small voice. “Like Petrelli.”

 

“No, you’re quite different from Peter. Look.” He showed Sylar the DNA sequence print-out. “I’ve seen Peter’s DNA. Peter borrows. You steal, Sylar. You alter yourself permanently. Now each one of those changes is hurting you. There’s hardly any unaltered genetic code left for your body to read.”

 

Sylar swallowed hard. “Is that why I’m—?”

 

“Sick, yes. As the Cure continues to work, I imagine you’ll start to lose more basic body functions. You’ve made too many changes that can’t be undone. You’re going to die.” Mohinder expected to feel pleasure saying those words, but instead he felt nothing. Sylar looked at him uncomprehendingly, and Mohinder again felt the stirrings of guilt.

 

“Can you help me?” Sylar asked.

 

“Only if I gave you the Cure antidote.” The words came out of Mohinder’s mouth before he could stop them. That wasn’t an option. As far as anyone in this building was concerned, there _was_ no Cure antidote.

 

“So you can help,” Sylar said slowly.

 

“If I had an antidote, Sylar, you would be the last person on Earth I would give it to,” Mohinder said. Even as he said it, he regretted the necessity of this cruelty. Madden expected him to let Sylar die, he was sure of that, but this torture suddenly seemed to Mohinder excessively vindictive. “You don’t deserve to get your abilities back,” he finished.

 

“There’s nothing else you can do?” Sylar asked, staring at Mohinder as if he didn’t understand. Mohinder wasn’t fooled; Sylar was smart, surely smart enough to know what kind of a choice he was asking Mohinder to make. Under these circumstances, there was nothing Mohinder could do to save him, even if he’d had the will to do so.

 

“I don’t have to do anything. I don’t have to lift a finger, and I can watch you die,” said Mohinder. His feeling of guilt began to grow as he saw Sylar recoil from those words.

 

“I don’t expect you to want to save me,” Sylar said. “But I do expect you not to stand by and do nothing.”

 

Mohinder’s sense of righteous indignation rallied again, pushing down the guilt. “I don’t owe you anything, Sylar.”

 

Sylar looked at him in silence for a long moment, then let out a harsh sound that could have been a laugh or a sob. “You never met Isaac Mendez, did you?”

 

Mohinder narrowed his eyes at the sudden change in subject. “No. You murdered him before I had the chance.”

 

“Yes, well… Did you know he let me kill him?” Sylar asked. Mohinder shot him an angry glare, but Sylar was looking at the ground. “It was strange at the time; he wasn’t afraid at all. He’d been painting his death; he knew it was coming, and he just let me kill him.”

 

“I don’t want to hear this,” Mohinder said, but he couldn’t bring himself to move.

 

“I’m only saying this to explain. Once I had his power, I understood why he would let himself be killed like that. To see something that scares you, something you know will happen…” He looked up at last, tentatively meeting Mohinder’s eyes as if he was afraid the scientist would turn away. “I saw something, Mohinder.”

 

The words were pulled from him almost against his will. “What did you see?”

 

“I saw something I didn’t want to be. I saw something that sent me running from who I had become.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I wanted to change, and I knew Hiro could help me.”

 

“What did you see?” Mohinder asked again. Despite himself, he moved a step closer, the better to hear.

 

“The same as it was for Isaac in his last days, I painted the same thing over and over, drew it on every page of half-a-dozen sketch books, saw it when I closed my eyes, as if it was burning itself into my future.”

 

“What did you see?”

 

“I saw you,” Sylar explained. “Look.” He took the clipboard out of Mohinder’s hand, flipped a page of it over to show the blank side, and began to sketch quickly with a pen. Mohinder watched in frozen silence until Sylar handed the finished drawing back to him. “Like that. Look.”

 

Mohinder looked at what Sylar had drawn. He saw himself laid out on the floor, eyes open and staring in death, his skull torn open, ringed with gore. Sylar sat beside him, contemplating his corpse thoughtfully, his expression almost tender.

 

“I didn’t want that. That’s insane,” said Sylar. “That’s one step beyond the line that can’t be crossed. Do you see? I couldn’t pretend it was an evolutionary imperative, pretend I deserved a power you weren’t using; it was just… killing.” Mohinder looked up from the drawing and met Sylar’s eyes, eyes that grabbed him and held him, begging him to understand. “Even before, when you were the enemy, I never hated you, I never wanted to kill you, not like that. Isaac’s ability showed me what I would do to make me realize what I would not do. Does that make sense?”

 

“No,” Mohinder whispered.

 

“It won’t happen, Mohinder.” Sylar reached out to place a hand over Mohinder’s where it lingered on the clipboard. “I’m a different man than the one whose future held that. I haven’t drawn such things in… in a long time.”

 

“You drew it now.”

 

Sylar shook his head. “That’s just a drawing. Not a prophecy. I wanted to show you.”

 

Mohinder brought himself back under control. “And now you have, Sylar.” He tore the page off the clipboard, crumpled it, and threw it on the ground.

 

“Mohinder!” Sylar protested. He lurched to his feet, but then clutched his head in pain. Mohinder took advantage of his distraction to retreat from the cell, slamming the door behind him.

 

“Mohinder!” Sylar called, pleading and demanding.

 

Mohinder didn’t look back.  
********

 

Ando knocked on the door to the den for the tenth time. “I know you’re in there,” he called. There was no answer. Ando was starting to wonder if Hiro was broken. He hadn’t come out of the den all day, and drama was starting to reach a fever pitch in the apartment. Ando had finally told Alai to stop cleaning the guns and put them away because he was afraid there might be an “accident.”

 

Ando knocked again, and switched to Japanese. “Will you at least talk to me? The others are starting to get worried.”

 

“Go away,” Hiro called from the other side of the door. At least that meant he wasn’t dead.

 

As Ando raised his hand to knock again, Alai appeared at his side. “Someone just tripped one of Dean’s proximity alarms downstairs,” he said urgently.

 

“Hiro!” Ando called. “Did you hear that?” When there was no answer, Ando grumbled under his breath, “Fine, then.” He turned to Alai. “Let’s go,” he said.

 

Alai led him back into the main room of the studio where Dean and Micah were huddled in front of a laptop. The others had finally stopped bickering and were sitting in tense silence. “What happened?” Ando asked.

 

“We have some light sensors in the stairwell. The first one tripped about a minute ago, and whoever it is just passed the one on the fourth floor,” Dean reported.

 

“How many?” Ando asked.

 

“Should be just one. See?” Micah said, pointing to a read-out on the screen that was gibberish to Ando but apparently made perfect sense to him and Dean. “Light beam was only disrupted for three tenths of a second.”

 

“Might not be here for us,” Dean said. “Could be a vagrant, squatter, something.”

 

“Awful lot of locks on that stairwell door for a casual visitor,” Alai said grimly.

 

Ando tended to agree with Alai. Things hadn’t been going well for the group lately, and it was better to assume the worst. “Lara, Matt,” he said. “Take guns, get everyone in the back room. If you hear shooting, take the fire escape. Go.” Lara and Matt sprang into action, heading for the cabinet where Alai had stowed the guns. “Alai,” Ando said, lowering his voice. “You and I will take the door.”

 

“Hit the sixth floor now,” Dean called from the computer. Lara was starting to shoo everyone toward the back of the apartment, a shotgun balanced firmly on her hip.

 

Alai took a handgun for himself from the cabinet, and tossed another one to Ando. Then he threaded his way across the room to take Molly Walker by the shoulder. “Can’t you tell us who’s out there?” he asked.

 

“It doesn’t work that way. I have to know who I’m looking for,” Molly said, exasperated. She looked at Micah. “I wish I could,” she said apologetically.

 

“It’s okay,” said Ando. “Go on with Matt. You guys, too,” he said to Dean and Micah.

 

“The sensor at the end of the hall just tripped,” Micah said. “Be careful.” Then he and Dean followed Molly into the other room.

 

The apartment was dead silent, and Ando could now plainly hear the sound of footsteps in the hallway outside. Ando leveled his gun at the door, and Alai crept quietly over to the door and positioned himself behind it.

 

There came the jingle of a key ring, and to his surprise, Ando saw the lock turn and the deadbolt slide out. When the door opened, everything seemed to happen at once. Alai pulled the person through the entrance by his shirt, slamming the door closed, and proceeded to wrestle the intruder to the ground. Ando moved closer, trying to find an opening to take a shot if he had to. Then Alai gave a startled shout and jumped back; the stranger’s hands were glowing with fire. Fire?

 

The stranger scrambled to his feet, looking between Alai, who was more surprised than hurt, to Ando, who still held the gun pointed unwaveringly at him. “Ando?” he said finally.

 

Ando stared at the man in disbelief. “Peter Petrelli?”  
********

 

Mohinder had never actually had to watch anyone die from the effects of his drug. He’d read reports about it, then spent months refusing to read reports about it, but he’d never witnessed first-hand one of his own murders. It shouldn’t matter that Sylar was in pain. Mohinder shouldn’t care. He hadn’t cared before. He didn’t owe Sylar anything. He would keep telling himself that, no matter what happened.

 

Sylar had been quiet most of the morning, for which Mohinder was distinctly thankful. He didn’t want to think about what Sylar had drawn, what that meant about his influence on Sylar, what that meant about how Sylar viewed him. To avoid those thoughts, Mohinder focused on the minute, the knowable. DNA was absolute, and understandable, and he’d spent the last four hours losing himself in the inner workings of Sylar’s genome. The more he studied Sylar’s gene sequence, the more he was convinced that the only way to stop the deterioration was to reverse the effects of the Cure. The only thing that might save Sylar was the one thing he wouldn’t do.

 

“Mohinder?” Sylar’s voice came through the Plexiglas, strangely flattened.

 

“What?” he called, not bothering to look up from his microscope.

 

“Mohinder?” Sylar called again.

 

“I’m right here,” Mohinder snapped without looking. “Stop it.”

 

“Mohinder!”

 

Mohinder stood up and whirled around to face Sylar. “I’m right—.”

 

Sylar was standing, face close to the glass, staring at Mohinder in horror. “I can’t hear you,” Sylar said, suddenly quiet. “I can’t hear you.”

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

Sylar shook his head.

 

“You can’t hear me?” Mohinder asked.

 

“I can’t hear anything,” Sylar said.

 

Mohinder had been right. Cure was starting to impair the basic functions of Sylar’s body. “Dale,” Mohinder breathed. “You changed your DNA to match what Dale could do, and now you can’t revert to what you had.”

 

Sylar shook his head, not understanding. Mohinder turned away, and he heard an anguished cry from his patient. Mohinder ignored it

 

He looked again at the sample he’d taken earlier. The damage was accelerating. Sylar would continue to get worse, and faster, if Mohinder did nothing. Mohinder pushed the sample away—he didn’t owe it to Sylar to do anything, he told himself fiercely— and turned his attention to data from some older cases. Madden might start to get suspicious if he made no progress at all toward his supposed goal of a Cure antidote.

 

As if his thought had summoned her, Alicia Madden suddenly appeared in the doorway of his lab. “Knock knock,” she said pleasantly.

 

“Madam Secretary,” Mohinder said, and stood up. “Come in, please.”

 

“You can call me Alicia, Doctor,” Madden said. “How’s your patient?” She nodded toward the cell at the back of the lab.

 

“Not well, I’m afraid,” Mohinder told her. “Cure seems to have had an idiopathic effect on his DNA.”

 

“Hmm,” she said. She came to stand in front of the Plexiglas, cocking her head to the side in interest as if Sylar was an unusual specimen in a zoo.

 

“I’m afraid he’ll be dead soon,” Mohinder said. That, at least, was the truth.

 

Madden turned to scrutinize him. “Is that a problem?”

 

“No,” Mohinder said tightly. Except that it was. When he thought about just letting Sylar die, it suddenly seemed cowardly, even if it was for the good of humanity. If Mohinder could even truly say his choice was for the good of humanity, and not for revenge.

 

 

“I’m glad to hear you say that, Doctor Suresh,” Madden said. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “I know you understand the depth in tragedy of the crimes Sylar has committed.”

 

“Yes,” Mohinder said. He tried to bring to mind the faces of Sylar’s victims, but saw only the faces of those who’d died because of Cure.

 

“Your own father’s murderer...” She shook her head. “The man really is a monster.”

 

“Yes,” Mohinder said, but to hear her say so made him doubt it. How many had Sylar killed, in all? Dozens? A hundred? Mohinder’s drug had caused thousands of deaths. He was suddenly finding it difficult to judge Sylar’s crimes so harshly.

 

“I’m surprised you can maintain enough scientific integrity to use him as a test subject,” Madden said, strolling casually to a lab table and peering at the papers Mohinder had lined up.

 

“I’m not really testing him, Secretary Madden. I’m just observing his condition.”

 

“His condition,” Madden repeated. She turned back to look at Sylar, still curled in the fetal position on his bunk. Her smile was almost malicious. “Yes, it’s lucky for us that Cure is so successful at making people like Sylar safe to observe.”

 

“Yes.”

 

She turned to him, beaming. “You’re a real hero, Doctor Suresh,” she said.

 

Mohinder couldn’t hold on to his fake smile, so he was relieved that she looked back to the cell.

 

“Mister Sylar,” she called. There was, of course, no response, so she turned to Mohinder. “What’s wrong with him?”

 

“He’s lost his hearing,” Mohinder said blandly.

 

Madden laughed, a hearty chuckle that froze Mohinder’s blood. “Oh, that’s a charming side effect.”

 

“Yes,” was all Mohinder could bring himself to say. How dare she laugh at Sylar’s pain like that. Sylar may be a monster, but to take delight in his pain, the type of pain Mohinder’s Cure had caused for countless others in its time... It was sick. _And you’ve never delighted in Sylar’s pain?_ a small voice whispered to him.

 

“You know,” she said, turning her back on Sylar to study Mohinder. “Some of my colleagues doubted you could handle this assignment, but I knew you had it in you to make the most of this opportunity.”

 

“Thank you, Madam Secretary.”

 

She kept up her smile as she strode to the door. Mohinder followed her. “Let me know if there’s anything you need, won’t you Doctor?”

 

“Thank you,” Mohinder said. Then she was gone.

 

Mohinder leaned against the door a moment and found that he was shaking. Fear, rage, he wasn’t sure. Something about her attitude had made him positively ill, and he was afraid it was because he recognized too much of his own feelings in her. When he had control of himself again, he turned back to the lab only to see Sylar sitting up on his bunk, staring at him. Or, more accurately, staring _through_ him.

 

Mohinder noticed, when he moved forward, that Sylar’s eyes didn’t track him. “Mohinder?” Sylar’s voice sounded weak, almost frightened.

 

Mohinder punched in the code to unlock the cell door and went in.

 

“Mohinder.” Sylar reached out for his hand. Mohinder let him find it, let Sylar twine their fingers together. “I can’t see,” he whispered.

 

“I know,” said Mohinder, even though he knew Sylar couldn’t hear him. He squeezed Sylar’s hand.

 

“I’m sorry,” Sylar said. Mohinder tried to let go, but Sylar held on, his grip barely strong enough to pull Mohinder back. “Mohinder, please.” Mohinder pulled away again, this time breaking his grip from Sylar’s, but he didn’t walk away. He couldn’t walk away.

 

It wasn’t quite pity that he felt. It wasn’t quite forgiveness, or mercy, even. Shame. That was it. Mohinder was ashamed that he could stand here, knowing that his drug had killed so many others, stand here with an opportunity to stop it, and not help. It was selfish. Sylar was begging for help. Begging.

 

Some hero. He’d prayed for a chance to undo his mistake. Just one chance to save someone, and now that chance was here for the taking. The gods must hate him. He didn’t deserve a test like this.

 

“Are you still there?” Sylar whispered. He reached out again, and this time Mohinder stepped away. Sylar’s hand searched feebly for a moment, then dropped. With a panicked little exhalation, Sylar curled onto his side, muttering to himself. Mohinder thought he caught a snatch of Bible verse. He remembered “father forgive me” scrawled in red on the walls of Sylar’s old apartment in New York back before he’d met the man. Father, forgive me indeed. Mohinder looked at Sylar, created by Chandra’s hubris, tortured by Mohinder’s failures. Forgive me indeed.

 

* * *

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**Author’s Note:** So, I know you may hate me for this, but it looks like there will be a week’s hiatus. We’re halfway through the story, and I need to take some time to work ahead if I’m going to have any hope of keeping up this weekly posting schedule for the second half. That means I’d be posting the next chapter on Friday, November 9th. In the meantime, I have a one-shot or two that might find their way onto LJ, so hopefully those will tide you over. Thanks all for your lovely comments thus far—they fuel the fire!  


* * *


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone has to compromise something, and a few missing pieces of the puzzle from the past come together.

_Three years ago_

 

Two Homeland Security guards led Peter to an examining room and left him there. The room itself didn’t seem sinister; it looked like any other doctor’s examining room Peter had seen. Apparently he wasn’t dangerous enough to warrant being restrained, but he noticed they did lock the door on their way out. Peter sat quietly, feeling almost amused at the way things were going. He tried to picture Nathan’s face when he heard the news about his arrest. Would he be more scared or angry?

 

Peter knew it was childish to take revenge this way, using his arrest to punish Nathan for his manipulation, but it also felt like the right thing to do. There was a certain courage—Nathan would have called it naiveté, probably—in not running from his destiny. If this was the fate to which Nathan wanted to condemn all special people, then Peter would go to it bravely.

 

After waiting idly (all the drawers and cabinets were also locked: Peter had checked) for twenty minutes or so, a young and fairly pretty woman in scrubs came in, leaving the door open behind her. She didn’t introduce herself or make eye contact with Peter but went right to unlocking a cabinet and pulling out a blood pressure cuff, which she fastened unceremoniously around Peter’s arm.

 

“One thirty over ninety,” Peter said, looking down at the cuff. “I should cut down on the eggs and bacon. Or maybe it’s just stress.”

 

She seemed almost surprised that Peter had spoken. She took off the blood pressure cuff and turned away quickly. Peter could see that she was nervous. She laid out several blood tubes on the counter and readied a needle; Peter noticed that the tops of the tubes were different colors, which meant they were for different tests, but he couldn’t read any of the writing on them. Before sticking the needle into his vein, the nurse flicked a glance to his face, so quickly that Peter might have missed it if he hadn’t been paying attention. She wasn’t as unfriendly as she seemed.

 

“My name’s Peter,” he said after the needle was in.

 

The nurse rolled her eyes, but she relented a little under Peter’s most charming smile. “Amber,” she said.

 

“Nice to meet you, Amber. So where’d you go to nursing school?”

 

She raised an eyebrow at him as she sealed one tube of blood and fastened another to the needle.

 

“I used to be a nurse,” Peter explained. “Hospice care. Different from this, for sure. I went to NYU for nursing. Where’d you go?”

 

“UCLA,” she said warily.

 

“Oh, I see. I hear the students there throw some great parties.”

 

“I liked it,” she replied mildly, but Peter could see she was holding back a smile. She set the tubes of blood in a rack on the counter, then unwrapped a different needle.

 

“What is that?” Peter asked.

 

Amber frowned. “Just a sedative.”

 

“I don’t need a sedative,” Peter said, wrapping his hand around his arm protectively.

 

“You don’t have a choice, honey,” Amber said. “It’s standard procedure.”

 

Peter wondered if he was being paranoid, but he had a strong feeling that he wasn’t seeing the whole picture here. There would be no need to sedate prisoners as a matter of course. “What kind of sedative is it?” Peter asked suddenly.

 

“What?”

 

“What’s it called, this sedative?” he explained. “I’m allergic to some medicines, and I just want to make sure I’m not going to have a reaction.”

 

“I don’t know what it’s called,” she said irritably.

 

Of course she knew. Someone had to tell her what to give him, and she was responsible for checking to make sure she was giving him the right dose, so she would have had to read the name at least twice. She didn’t want to tell him, because it wasn’t a sedative. That was the only explanation. It was something else. “I don’t want it,” he said, realizing after he said it how pathetic that sounded.

 

“They’re not going to hurt you. They’re just trying to help. They’ll cure you,” Amber whispered.

 

“Cure?” Peter echoed dumbly. Suddenly it was a little hard to breathe. “Cure what?”

 

“Your disease,” she whispered earnestly. “The mistake in your DNA. They can fix it.”

 

Peter stared at her. _This_ was what Nathan wanted to do with everyone’s abilities? Eradicate them? Peter had expected imprisonment, isolation, perhaps even torture, but he hadn’t anticipated that they would be able to destroy a part of his identity. He searched Amber’s face for a sign of sympathy, but found only righteous certainty. She was really convinced that she was doing the right thing.

 

“It’ll be okay, Peter,” she said soothingly, and pulled his arm toward her again. It had all been a joke until now. He knew he could waltz out of here any time, phase through the wall and just be gone when he got tired of punishing Nathan. But if they really had a way to strip him of his powers, he could be changed, ruined forever.

 

“No!” The syringe flew out of Amber’s hand, telekinesis sending it flying so fast it stuck in the wall. Amber shrieked, and Peter realized that if he intended to fight, he had to do it now.

 

Peter thought about invisibility, and Amber screamed again. Two Homeland Security guards had arrived just in time to see Peter disappear. One of them raised his riot shield and rushed forward. The room was too small for Peter to jump out of the way, even if he’d been able to react in time; he found himself caught by the shield and slammed into the far wall with the force of a charging bull. He felt more than heard bones crack where the edge of the shield trapped his arm. It occurred to Peter that they had no way to know that he could heal; this guard would have come at him with deadly force anyway. What if it had been someone like Claude here in his place? Claude, who was far from indestructible.

 

Enraged, Peter brought heat to his hands, flaring out with fire, taking a split-second to send a prayer of thanks to Meredith, wherever she was. The guard cried out in surprise and jumped back to avoid being burned.

 

He looked up to see the second guard wielding a fire extinguisher, and then came pain as chemicals sprayed into his face, choking him and burning his eyes. The last thing he heard was the sharp hiss of a tazer.  
********

 

Amber must have gotten her wish after all, because Peter had the groggy, cotton-stuffed feeling that meant he’d been sedated. His cheek was pressed against something cool—the floor, perhaps. He raised his head, regretting it when his temples began to throb viciously. It was dark, so he had no idea where he was, or how long he’d been out.

 

Peter knew without trying that his powers were gone. Whatever Amber had done to him had taken effect. He could feel how empty he was, the bond to each person he’d met with a power: gone. Each little connection, each line of commonality with a comrade, or an enemy even, had been cut. Until now, he hadn’t realized how much his empathic ability fed him, allowed him to form links and to hold them long after contact was over. He felt hollow and exposed, and he as he dwelt on that feeling, he realized that he was naked.

 

Peter had always been a tactile person. He needed the touch of skin on skin, the softness of a blanket, the soothing warmth of a body pressed to his. Now there was nothing—just the cold tile floor, not even the tactile reassurance of clothes rubbing against his skin. He was truly alone.

 

For one bright, desperate moment, he wanted nothing more than to see Nathan walk through the door, throw some clothes at him, and say in that impatient-but-resigned way, “Let’s go, Pete.”

 

Then he remembered he couldn’t accept that from Nathan. Not any more. Nathan had done this to him, had wanted this to be done to everyone like Peter, everyone with abilities. When Nathan came, and Peter had no doubt that he would come eventually, Peter couldn’t accept his help. He had made the decision to defy Nathan: that decision had landed him here. Nathan was a traitor. Nathan was nothing to Peter anymore.

 

At that thought, Peter sat up, feeling around in the dark until his hand encountered the cold stone of a wall. Peter propped his back against the wall, enjoying even that little bit of stability. He wrapped his arms around his legs and closed his eyes, trying to breathe deeply. Peter wouldn’t be weak. He wouldn’t panic. He had come here willingly to show Nathan the consequences of his actions, to embrace his fate, and he would not back out now. He wouldn’t go running for his brother for help, not ever again.

 

There was a sudden loud, rusty squeal, and a sliver of light appeared in the opposite wall. For a moment, Peter’s heart soared, and he imagined he saw a familiar silhouette. But no, an unfamiliar face unceremoniously dropped a cup of water and a bowl of food on the floor, and closed the door, leaving Peter more night blind than before.

 

Peter cursed himself for that little hope he’d felt. He had to force himself not to think about Nathan. He had to destroy these feelings, rip his love out by the roots. That was the way to survive. No Nathan. No brother. Just Peter. From now on.  
********

 

_Two years, six months ago_

 

Noah squinted up at the bus station sign. He was fairly sure this was where he was supposed to catch bus 151, which would take him the Howard Street station, where he could catch the purple line home. He was still learning the ins and outs of public transit in Chicago, which was their third new city in as many months. It was getting harder and harder to keep his family safe.

 

Comparing the numbers on the sign with the piece of paper in his hand, Noah concluded that he was in the right place and turned his attention to the street. If the bus didn’t come soon, he’d call a cab. Sandra would start to worry if he was late.

 

“Noah Bennet?”

 

Noah’s stomach lurched sickly, but he held still, ignoring whoever had called his name—his old name. He refused to let any trace of recognition show on his face. It could just be a coincidence. He shifted his stance so he could feel the cool, comforting weight of his .45 in the holster against the small of his back. Sandra had argued when he’d started carrying it, but after the incident in Topeka, even she had to admit it wasn’t a bad idea.

 

“Hello?” The owner of the voice, a woman with straight dark hair, blue eyes and a white jacket, was standing a few feet away from the bus stop, hands shoved casually into her pockets.

 

“Excuse me?” Noah asked shortly. There was no one else around, and not much traffic on the street. He could knock her out and get her into that alley over there, for starters. Then he could find out who sent her. No sense shooting her in public unless she gave him no choice.

 

“Are you Noah Bennet?” she asked.

 

“You must have the wrong person,” he said evenly. He met her gaze, projecting polite disinterest. Her hands were in her pockets, and the pockets were too small to hold a gun. Therefore he would have at least a few seconds to get the .45 out before she could react. He didn’t have to shoot her. It would be enough to threaten.

 

“I need to talk to you,” said the woman. She took a step closer. “It’s about Claire. It’s about what Claire can do.”

 

He’d have to shoot her. His hand went for the gun, but before he could touch metal, the woman had pulled something from her pocket, holding it up for Noah to see. “Be careful,” she said. Noah’s eyes flicked from her face to the badge in her hand, and his hand tightened on the grip of his gun.

 

“Homeland Security,” she said. “I’m just here to talk. Don’t do this to yourself.” When Noah didn’t move, she added, “You don’t want to become a terrorist, do you?”

 

Noah pulled his empty hand out of his jacket, and the woman smiled. “Who are you?” Noah asked.

 

“My name’s Alicia Madden,” the woman said brightly. With a gloved hand, she brushed off a space on the bus stop bench and sat down. “I’m the special assistant to the Secretary of Homeland Security. I know about your work with The Company. I just need a minute of your time.”

 

Noah said nothing, but he sat down beside her.

 

“Good.” Alicia smiled, and removed her gloves. “Our country is at a crossroads here, Noah. Can I call you Noah?”

 

“No.” He scanned the street, trying to determine if there were other Homeland Security agents somewhere close, in hiding.

 

“The Department of Homeland Security is going to start taking on some new responsibilities,” she went on. “The Linderman Solution is going to change the world as we know it.”

 

“I’d say it already has,” he said, and couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice. Noah had seen Peter Petrelli's arrest covered on television last year: the capture of a Congressman’s brother had been a media circus. Watching the coverage, Noah had begun began to harbor a burning resentment toward Nathan Petrelli. There was no keeping Claire from learning about it, and it had taken all of his considerable skills of persuasion to prevent her from storming off to Washington, D.C. to confront her biological father and demand that he _do_ something.

 

“People like Congressman Petrelli are big-picture people,” Alicia said dismissively. “They make themselves look good by talking a big game. What’s important is how these new laws are enforced. Homeland Security is going to be in charge of enforcing these laws, and right now we need people who have experience dealing with special abilities.”

 

“No offense, Ms. Madden, but I don’t think it’s my kind of experience you’re looking for,” Noah said.

 

Alicia smiled. “I’ll tell you the truth, Noah. I’ve been reading up on you, and I’ve become an admirer of yours. You’re the kind of man who knows what it takes to get results. Listen to what I’m saying. We need someone to make tough decisions. Petrelli, the rest of congress, they just built a ship. Now we need someone to captain it.”

 

Noah’s hand itched for his gun. This sounded eerily familiar. The Company had needed him too, at first.

 

Alicia must have interpreted his silence as interest, because she went on. “The Evolved Human Taskforce is going to figure out how all this is going to work. What to do about the most dangerous abilities, how to deal with resistance, how to find people with abilities who don’t want to be found. I want you to lead the taskforce.”

 

“Why would I want to do that?” Noah asked.

 

“Noah, I’m not here to threaten you. I know there is no Claire Bennet, so it doesn’t matter that her name is on Doctor Suresh’s list. But I want you to think about a life of running and hiding, and about how much harder that life is going to get when Homeland Security gets serious about finding people with abilities. I found you, didn’t I?”

 

“Yes, you did,” Noah said grudgingly.

 

“As a courtesy to you, because I understand the type of man you are, I did not go to Evanston High today and have Claire taken out of class. I did not send an agent to your house. I came to talk to you first,” Alicia said brightly.

 

Noah felt his stomach clench again, and resisted the urge to reach for his gun. If he killed her now, someone else would come. It was too late to run again.

 

“Everything you’ve done has been to keep your family safe,” Alicia said. “What I’m offering is a way for you to keep your family safe from here on out.”

 

Noah worked to think past the angry haze that had sprung up when he realized how trapped he was. He was a practical man. There had been too many close calls of late, and Alicia was right: from now on it would only get more difficult to hide. “Family is important,” he ground out through clenched teeth.

 

He could tell that she smelled blood, but to her credit, she played it very cool. Slipping on her gloves again, she stood. “Of course, if you’re not interested, I’m sure there are others who would love a shot at that kind of influence. Let’s see, the next person on my list is a man named Bob—.”

 

“I’ll do it,” Noah said. He cursed himself even as he said it, but any other alternative was more painful. “I’m in.”  
*********

 

_Two years ago_

 

“Good. Now this one.”

 

“I’m tired,” Molly said. Normally she didn’t mind her twice-a-week sessions with Ms Parker. They were one of the few approved opportunities she had to use her abilities. However, today’s session had gone on much longer than usual, and Molly was starting to get a headache. “Can we stop, please?”

 

“Just one more, Molly,” Ms. Parker said brightly.

 

Molly sighed and pulled the next page toward here. As usual, it had a name and a picture of someone on the list. As she stared at the page, her right hand, the one holding the push-pin, began to move over the map on the table. It happened without even trying, but this time she stopped, forced herself to close her eyes and concentrate on something else.

 

“What’s wrong, Molly?”

 

“I don’t want to do this one,” Molly said softly.

 

Ms. Parker’s wide brown eyes were full of concern. “What’s wrong, honey?”

 

She hated when the teachers called her honey, but she especially hated hearing it from Ms. Parker. The teachers didn’t care about her, she knew that too well. No one here cared about her; they only cared about what she could do. “I don’t know where this one is.”

 

Ms. Parker smiled kindly, but Molly knew it was all show. “It was working, dear. You saw him. Just keep looking.”

 

Molly looked down at the page again, at the picture of Matt Parkman smiling up at her. She found people all day, tracking names and faces from the list, but this was the first time she’d come across someone she knew. “I can’t,” she whispered.

 

“It’s okay honey, don’t be scared.” Ms. Parker patted her hand. “This man can’t hurt you.”

 

“I know,” she said. Matt would never hurt her. He’d tried to keep her safe. Now she could return the favor.

 

“Well then.” Ms. Parker pushed the paper closer to Molly. “Go ahead, dear.”

 

Molly tried not to think too hard about what happened to the people she found during these sessions. At first, she had tried looking for them later, and always found them in the same place: here at the detention facility. It wasn’t that she wanted to help capture people like her, but she didn’t have many options. She knew there were consequences for kids who didn’t cooperate.

 

“Molly.” Now Ms. Parker’s voice had a warning tone. “You know what happens to children who don’t use their powers.”

 

“They lose them,” Molly finished obediently. She’d had her powers taken away once before, by a mysterious virus rather than a manufactured drug. Then, only Mohinder’s blood had saved her. He wasn’t here to save her now, and he couldn’t even he wanted to. Mohinder was the one who had made the drug who could take away the powers of kids who didn’t cooperate, of anyone who didn’t cooperate. Mohinder wasn’t coming to save her. She had to be her own hero from now on. She looked at Matt’s smiling face. “I can’t see him anymore,” she said finally. “He’s like the other one. He can see me when I look for him.”

 

Ms. Parker looked at her searchingly. She took the piece of paper away and scooted her chair closer to Molly’s. “Honey, you know that what you do is very important for the country. You’re helping keep people safe.”

 

Molly nodded reluctantly. Tracking down people like The Boogeyman was one thing, but Matt hadn’t done anything wrong. He wasn’t a bad guy. They just wanted everyone on the list, everyone with any ability. Molly wasn’t sure what their ultimate goal was, but she doubted it had anything to do with keeping _her_ kind of people safe.

 

“You have to trust that when we ask you to find someone, it’s important,” Ms. Parker said gravely. “Do you believe that?”

 

Trust them. Impossible. But Molly nodded anyway, knowing that she had to.

 

“We value you Molly, but I need you to understand how important it is to follow instructions. I need you to find this man.” She set Matt’s picture back on the table.

 

Molly shook her head no.

 

Ms. Parker sighed. “I understand that you’ve made a friend in class.”

 

Molly felt her heart start to pound in her chest. Ms. Parker wasn’t going to let her get away with this unpunished, so why would she be changing the subject? “I have a lot of friends,” Molly said, proud that she was able to keep her voice from shaking.

 

“Micah Sanders,” Ms. Parker said. Her eyes were hard. “You two seem to be close.”

 

Molly didn’t know what to say to that, so she kept her mouth shut.

 

“But you know what, honey? I think he may be a bad influence. He’s one of those children who’s not very cooperative. Have you noticed that?”

 

“No,” Molly whispered. Of course she’d noticed. Micah did a terrible job of hiding his contempt for the teachers—the jailers—and he only did the bare minimum of what they expected.

 

“The dean has been talking about kicking him out of the program, Molly,” said Ms. Parker. She was putting just the right amount of regret into her tone, playing at being so _concerned_ for her student. “I’d hate to see that happen.”

 

“He’ll do better,” Molly said immediately. Micah couldn’t get kicked out of the program. That would mean losing his powers, being sold into slavery. She would have to get him to be more careful.

 

“I’ll tell you what, honey. I know you can set a good example for Micah. I’d rather give him another chance and see if you can help him be more cooperative.” She leaned back in her chair and pretended to consider the matter. “I’ll tell you what. If you keep doing a good job, I’ll make sure Micah stays in the program.”

 

Molly’s heart hammered in her chest. That was the trade. Micah’s safety for her ability. “If I find this one, he can stay?” she asked.

 

Ms. Parker nodded. “It’s for the best, Molly. You know we only help people here.”

 

She pulled Matt’s picture toward her and concentrated on his smiling face. Her right hand hovered over the map. She didn’t bother to look at where the pin landed, but Ms. Parker leaned over the table and made careful notes in her notebook. When she was finished, she gave Molly’s shoulder a friendly squeeze. “Good girl, Molly. You did the right thing. You can go back to the dormitory.”

 

Molly fled the room, dragging her feet all the way. She had to think. She and Micah had to find a way to get out, before they made her hurt anyone else.  
********************

 

_One year ago_

 

D.L. handed his box to Lara so he could relock the front door. “We’re late,” Lara said. “I’m surprised Niki didn’t call to check up on you.”

 

“Yeah,” D.L. said. He didn’t want to think about why Niki hadn’t called. Her behavior in the past few days had been strange, but he had promised himself he wouldn’t be suspicious. Niki had assured him over and over again that Jessica was gone, and he had to trust her.

 

The sound of voices came from further into the house. D.L. and Lara headed in, boxes in hand, and found Niki and the rest of the crew gathered in the living room. Someone must have said something funny, because riotous laughter bubbled up from the assembly. When D.L. and Lara appeared in the doorway, the laughter cut off abruptly.

 

“Hey guys.” D.L. frowned. Laughter was rare enough nowadays, and he hated to think his crew didn’t feel comfortable enough to laugh around him.

 

Niki gave them a bare nod, and most of the others muttered hellos. Only Monica, D.L.’s cousin, got up to greet them. Taking the box from D.L., she said, “You’re late.”

 

“What’d you get?” Niki asked, looking pointedly at the boxes now held by Lara and Monica.

 

“Cure supply,” Lara said excitedly. “Hiro’s people intercepted a big shipment, so now we’ve got some to dole out when people come asking.”

 

“Hm,” said Niki. Grabbing the remote from the coffee table, she turned on the television. The local news was just starting. “Great idea. Providing escapees with government poison.”

 

The closest members of the crew settled back in their seats uncomfortably. “Better than letting them die of withdrawal,” D.L. said sharply. He looked around at the others, but no one would meet his eyes except Lana, and she seemed ready to be barely holding back a smart retort.

 

“We should be fighting the disease, not the symptoms,” Niki said with a shrug. “But you can do whatever you want.”

 

D.L. suppressed the urge to argue. It would do no good to lose his cool in front of the others. Instead, he turned to Monica. “You can put those in the kitchen,” he said. “Tomorrow we can unpack everything and work on distributing the pills.”

 

“We’ll be busy tomorrow,” Niki broke in.

 

On her way to the kitchen, Monica froze, and D.L. turned back to his wife. “What do you mean?”

 

“We’ve got something planned.” She looked away from the television to pin him with a condescending glare. “You don’t have to come if you’ve got something better to do.”

 

Everyone else in the room seemed to be holding their breath. D.L. could tell that even the others who were studying the floor or keeping their eyes glued to the television were waiting for his reaction. “Can I talk to you for a second, Nik?”

 

“Fine.”

 

She rose from the couch and brushed past D.L. He followed her down the hallway to their bedroom, and shut the door behind them. Niki sat on the bed and stared up at D.L. with a bored expression. “Now what?”

 

“What was all that about?” D.L. asked, willing himself to stay calm. Niki clearly wasn’t in the best of moods, and getting into a screaming match wouldn’t be good for anyone. “If I’ve done something to piss you off, you should tell me, but the last thing the crew needs right now is all of our baggage.”

 

Niki shook her head disdainfully. “I’m glad you know what the crew needs, D.L. Because here I’ve been thinking all we needed was a little leadership.”

 

“Is that what you call your attitude? Leadership?” D.L. asked. He realized how loudly he was speaking, and made an effort to rein in his temper. “Tearing me down is not going to help us or the cause. And what happened to the two of us talking plans through before suggesting them to the others?

 

“What _happened_ was nothing, D.L.,” Niki said. “If I left it up to you, we’d be a glorified pharmacy and crisis line for fugitive slaves. Passive resistance isn’t working. I’ve been saying all along that we need to go after the root of the problem.” Her smile gave D.L. a sick feeling. “We’ve prepared a little surprise for the governor, and tomorrow, people are going to have to listen.”

 

“Don’t do this, Niki.” He sat down next to her on the bed. “We’ve talked about this. You do what you’re suggesting, and we become the bad guys here.” D.L. reached for Niki’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. They shouldn’t be arguing like this again. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t get in another fight. “Killing people isn’t going to find Micah,” he said gently.

 

“Maybe not, but it will make me feel better,” Niki said, and snatched her hand away. “And it’s better than doing nothing.”

 

“It’s not nothing,” D.L. said angrily. If he didn’t know better, he’d think he wasn’t talking to Niki at all. But that was impossible. Those days were over. “Hiro and his group have a new lead. We’re closer to finding him.”

 

“You were close in March. You were close last Christmas. Forget it. You’re never going to find him your way. It’s time somebody did something useful around here.” She pushed off the bed and headed for the door.

 

Jumping up after her, D.L. caught her hand again. “Don’t do this. I want Micah to have a family to come back to.”

 

“It’s already done, D.L.,” she said. Her smile was self-satisfied, almost cruel. He knew that look.

 

“What did you do?” he asked quietly.

 

“I took action. One of us needs to have a backbone.”

 

“If you put anyone on this crew in danger—.”

 

A knock at the door made them both turn. Lara poked her head inside and said, “Come quick. You’ll never believe what’s on the news.”

 

D.L. shot a look at Niki, who held the door open for him, maintaining that infuriatingly aloof smile. He followed Lara to the other room, where the television was still on the local news channel. Lara reached for the remote and turned up the volume.

 

“The governor’s eight-year-old daughter and six-year-old son were missing from their beds this morning,” the local reporter was saying. Images of New York’s first family flashed on the screen. “A massive search is underway in Albany county, but so far no sign of the children has been found.”

 

Furious, D.L. turned to Niki. “What is this?”

 

She just kept smiling. “That should get his attention, don’t you think?”

 

“This is insane,” D.L. said. “What did you do?”

 

“The governor visited the detention center for special children last week,” Niki said. She strolled over to the television, turned it off, and stood defiantly in front of it. “He saw what they’re doing to kids just like Micah, and he commended them for their effort. He’s increasing their funding. He’s proud of their contribution.”

 

“Did you kidnap his children?” D.L. whispered.

 

“Yeah,” Niki said. “We did.”

 

“What?” Lara broke in. She looked between D.L. and Niki, then back at the others, most of whom were staring studiously at the floor.

 

“Stop this right now,” D.L. said. “We’ve got to get them back.”

 

“Damage done, D.L.,” Niki said with a shrug that was too casual, too dismissive. “It’s too late to turn back.”

 

It wasn’t Niki. That was the only way something like this could have happened. Somehow, Jessica was back. “I think you’d better go,” D.L. said evenly.

 

“I should go?” Jessica raised an eyebrow, amused. “We’ll see about that. What’s the word, people? Who thinks the governor needs a wake up call?” She turned pointedly to the others seated in the living room. A few looked back, uncomfortable, but most kept their heads down.

 

At last, Monica got up and stood by Jessica. “This way is better, D.L.,” she said. “They’ll take us seriously now.”

 

“You helped with this?” D.L. asked softly.

 

Monica nodded. “This will really change things. It’s the right thing to do.”

 

“Are you joking? You want to be hunted down like animals?” Lara asked, coming to D.L.’s defense. “That’s what’s going to happen.”

 

“We’re not scared,” said Monica.

 

D.L. saw that it was really true. She believed Jessica, and if she did, it was a safe bet the others did too. “You should be,” he said.

 

“I think maybe you should leave now, honey,” Jessica said.

 

“I’m with him,” Lara said. She rose from the couch and went to stand next to D.L. “And if I were you, I wouldn’t stay long. Once I leave here, you’ll be back on the grid, and I can’t say I’ll be too upset if they find you.”

 

“Fine,” Jessica said without concern. “Anyone else leaving?” No one moved. Jessica gave a curt nod. “That’s what I thought.” She turned to D.L. “Get out.”

 

D.L. pointedly turned his back and headed down the hall to the door. He could hear Lara following close behind him.

 

“Oh, and D.L.?” Jessica stood at the end of the hallway, hands on her hips. “I’m going to find our son, and when I do, you will never see him again.”

 

“Goodbye Jessica,” D.L. said.  


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	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nathan deals with his errant daughter, Nora receives a shocking visitor, Peter learns about guns and Dr. Seuss, and Mohinder deals with the consequences of his decision.

Nathan was getting a headache. His Chief of Staff, Alan Ginsberg was having a shouting match with George Bailer, the Press Secretary. Nathan was sitting—not cowering, he told himself, just sitting—behind his desk in the Oval Office, counting to ten.

 

“It’s none of the press’s business what Homeland Security does with detainees!” Ginsberg shouted.

 

“They want to see someone punished for what happened,” Bailer shot back. His face was turning an unusual shade of purple. “Is that so wrong?”

 

“If it interferes with the normal operation of Homeland Securities duties, then yes.”

 

“Well if Homeland Security was doing its job in the first place—.”

 

Nathan cleared his throat loudly, and Bailer paused, turning in tandem with Ginsberg to look at him.

 

“Does this discussion really involve me?” Nathan asked.

 

Bailer must have caught the icy edge on his voice, because he shut his mouth in mid-rant. “Sorry, Mister President. We just need to make some sort of a policy decision before tonight’s press conference.”

 

“And why isn’t Secretary Madden here to give me her side of this issue?” Nathan asked.

 

“She’s out of town,” Ginsberg said grudgingly. “An important business trip. And besides, Mister President, this isn’t really about Homeland Security. It’s about your image. Your approval rating—.”

 

“I know it’s bad, Alan, you don’t have to remind me.” He turned his glare onto George Bailer. “Let me see if I understand your point. You’re saying that if we don’t show some progress on finding President Devlin’s assassin, people are going to start taking matters into their own hands?”

 

“Yes, Mister President,” Bailer said stiffly.

 

Nathan turned to Ginsberg. “And you’re saying that we can’t make an example of any current detainees because that would make us look incompetent?”

 

“Yes, Mister President.”

 

“Therefore…?” The two men looked at each other, but neither was willing to offer a solution. An idea flickered into existence, and Nathan wondered briefly if this plan, like so many others of late, had sprung from his inescapable pre-occupation with a certain missing brother. Nathan shoved that concern to the side for the moment, quickly examining the idea for flaws before giving an imperious nod. “All right. Alan, get this back to Secretary Madden. I want arrests. Every terrorist cell they’ve been watching, every suspected person with an ability, everyone on any list that hasn’t been brought in yet for any reason, bring them all in. Do it big, do it fast, and make sure the press sees it. Can you manage that?”

 

“Yes Mister President,” both men said together. Neither of them made any objection, which must mean that it was a reasonable enough plan, but an excited voice in Nathan’s head wished that one fugitive in particular would be picked up. Nathan wouldn’t mind pulling whatever strings it took to get Peter back from Homeland Security; that would be better than not knowing where he was. Ginsberg and Bailer were watching him expectantly, and Nathan forced himself to shut off further thoughts of Peter. “Is there anything else?” he asked impatiently.

 

Bailer went for the door, but Ginsberg hesitated. “I wanted to brief you on a few new developments before you meet with your speech writer.”

 

“I’m meeting with my speech writer?”

 

“There was a change in the schedule. I meant to tell you—,” Ginsberg began.

 

“It can wait, Alan,” Nathan said wearily. “This new operation is our top priority. Get someone else to tell me what the meeting is about, and you go deal with this.” If Nathan was lucky, maybe he could get a few moments alone.

 

As Ginsberg left, Nathan heard him in the outer office. “Claire, get the President up-to-date on the schedule, please.”

 

Claire. Wonderful. Nathan had been both dreading and anticipating this moment. Claire gave a polite, “My pleasure, sir,” to the departing Ginsberg, while Nathan settled himself in front of his desk, steeling himself for a fight. He wasn’t scared of Claire, he told himself. It didn’t matter that she had a whole arsenal of emotional weapons to use against him. It didn’t matter that she had the moral high ground. Being in the wrong had never bothered Nathan before. It shouldn’t bother him now that it was Peter he’d been wrong about. It shouldn’t, but it did.

 

Claire brought a clipboard with her into the Oval Office, but the minute the door was closed, she tossed it aside, along with her mask of professional cheeriness. “Hi _Dad_ ,” she said.

 

“Claire, what are you even doing here?” It wasn’t what he’d meant to say, but he was finding it difficult to maintain his detached arrogance under Claire’s icy gaze.

 

“I work here,” she said.

 

“I noticed that. Why?”

 

“Why?” She plopped down on one of the office’s couches, showing all the confidence—the irritating confidence—that Nathan remembered. “Well, for starters, it will look excellent on my resume.”

 

“Cute,” Nathan growled. “Does your father know you’re here?”

 

Claire narrowed her eyes at him. “I don’t know. Does he?”

 

“Bennet.” Nathan would not lose his temper. He was the adult—hell, he was the _president._ “Does Bennet know you’re here?”

 

“I don’t see what difference it makes, but yes, my dad knows where I work.” Claire seemed almost amused. “He comes down from his office on Tuesdays so we can have lunch together.”

 

“So you’re spying on me.” It wasn’t really a question.

 

“Not everything’s about you, Mister President,” she said, and Nathan was disturbed to see a piece of himself in her faux-innocent smile. “I’m just an administrative assistant.”

 

“Who happens to work in the President’s office.”

 

“I know how to keep a secret. I don’t pass on what I hear,” she said, eyes narrow with sincerity. “But that doesn’t stop me from being curious.”

 

“Nothing ever does,” Nathan muttered.

 

“Where’s Peter?” she asked suddenly.

 

Nathan found himself relaxing a fraction. This was the landmine they’d been dancing around, and Claire had touched it first. That gave him the upper hand. “Why do you care?”

 

“He’s my favorite blood relation.”

 

“Right.” Of course he was. Everybody loved Peter. “I don’t know where he is.”

 

“I saw you sell him out on national television, you know,” she said. Her posture on the couch still seemed casual, but there was hurt in her voice.

 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Nathan told her. Let Claire wallow in that guilt, if she wanted. Nathan would simply refuse to let her drag him in.

 

“Don’t I? Three years later and it still pisses me off.”

 

 

Nathan couldn’t help a harsh response. “I think you should stay away from things you don’t understand, Claire,” he said. Peter’s arrest was a wound that didn’t need any salt, especially today.

 

“I don’t understand?” Claire’s voice was dangerously calm. It almost made Nathan proud. In a flash, Claire was off the couch and coming toward him. Nathan held his ground while she grabbed his arm. She’d already undone the buttons on his cuff and pushed up his jacket sleeve before he realized what she was doing.

 

“Claire,” he said warningly.

 

She held out her right arm next to his, her skin seeming paler next to Nathan’s tan wrist. “Is something missing?” Claire asked. “A lot of people I used to know seem to have a certain mark that you and I don’t have.”

 

“Are you complaining?” Nathan asked. He jerked his sleeve back down and turned his attention to buttoning the cuff of his shirt. He didn’t want to think of the mark Peter bore, the ink stark and ugly on a wrist that delicate. “If you want a tattoo so badly, I’m sure Noah will—.”

 

“I’ve had a lot of time to think about this,” Claire interrupted him. “I may not have a mark on me, but I’m a slave. My whole life is one big, self-serving lie. I could be arrested anytime.”

 

“You won’t be arrested, Claire,” Nathan snapped. “You’ve got Bennet looking out for you.”

 

“That’s not the point. If it weren’t for what you did, we wouldn’t have to hide.”

 

“This is my fault?” Nathan asked, relaxing into the comfort of indignation. It was easier now that they were talking in broad terms, in theories. Right now, Nathan needed some distance from the bleeding pain of his mistakes with Peter.

 

“You did this,” Claire said. “You made everyone afraid of us.”

 

“It was going to happen anyway.” Nathan retreated behind his desk. Facing Claire from behind the barrier of his office helped him recapture his confidence. “I made sure it happened on my terms.”

 

“On your terms? What good has that done?” Claire leaned menacingly across the desk. “Who have you saved with your terms, _Dad?_ Not me, not Peter. Yourself, maybe?”

 

“Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for…” _For Peter,_ he wanted to say. “For my family.”

 

Claire seemed to have heard what he didn’t say. “Where is Peter?” she asked softly.

 

Nathan sat, turning his desk chair away so he didn’t have to look at Claire. “I have no idea.” That was the truth at least.

 

“You’ve seen him?” She seemed to have let out all her anger, and latched on to the one thing they had in common: caring about Peter.

 

“What if I had?” Nathan asked. He meant it to sound disinterested, but he knew it fell short.

 

“You were talking about him with that woman the other day. I know you were.” She came around to Nathan’s side of the desk and stood behind him. “You know something.”

 

“I know lots of things, Claire.” Too many things. Even as he said it, he tried not to recall what he’d been realizing since he found Peter: things were not okay. Peter was hurt, Peter was broken. Now Peter was gone again, and it was his fault for letting it happen.

 

“Is he alive, at least?” She was so genuinely concerned. His breath caught in his throat as he was suddenly, intensely reminded of the awful feeling of not knowing whether Peter was alive or dead. Claire didn’t deserve that.

 

“He was a few days ago,” Nathan muttered.

 

Claire’s face lit up, and she closed the distance between them to grab his hand. “You _have_ seen him?”

 

Nathan found himself nodding. “Yeah.”

 

“When? How? Where is he now?” Claire asked excitedly.

 

Seeing her so excited was like a punch in the gut. The relief he’d felt at the slave auction, when he’d finally held Peter in his arms after looking for so long turned to ashes when Mandy broke the news that Peter was gone. Stupid, _stupid_ to lose him again, to drive him away. “I don’t know,” Nathan said thickly.

 

To her credit, Claire seemed to take more from his words than he’d actually said, and backed off. “Can you at least tell me when you hear from him?”

 

“Sure,” Nathan said immediately.

 

“Do you promise?”

 

“No.”

 

“At least you’re being honest about that.” Her frown suddenly deepened. “They’ll wonder why we’ve been in here so long.” She snatched up the clipboard from the couch and squinted at it. “You’ve got your speech writer in three minutes,” she said. Before she opened the door, she fixed Nathan with another stern glare. “I’m not done with you,” she said. Then she was gone, and Nathan couldn’t help a small smile. Maybe his daughter had a little more Petrelli in her than he’d thought.  
****************

 

At first, Peter wondered if he’d accidentally teleported into the past. Or perhaps into an alternate reality. He recognized Ando first, and he was trying to come up with the name of the other guy, the telepathic cop, when he caught sight of Hiro Nakamura. Hiro had almost cried when he saw Peter, and then pounced on him with an enthusiastic hug.

 

At that point, everyone else relaxed, including the intense Middle Eastern man who’d had a gun trained on him. It seemed that Hiro’s endorsement was all the others needed to accept Peter.

 

“It’s destiny,” was the first thing Hiro said to him. “I’ve been waiting for a sign.” Peter was about to ask what exactly that meant, but just then Ando clapped him on the back and gave him a profoundly grateful look, so Peter didn’t dig any deeper.

 

Since last night, almost every member of the group had talked to Peter, wanting to know who he was, where he’d come from, how he found them. Peter danced around the facts as best he could; he wasn’t ready to advertise the fact that he was the President’s renegade brother. The cop—he’d finally remembered the name Matt Parkman—had watched him for a long time with a look of fierce concentration that made Peter nervous. Finally, Ando had shooed everyone away so Peter could get some sleep.

 

This morning everyone seemed too busy to bother Peter. Hiro had been issuing orders left and right, and now the apartment bore more than a passing resemblance to a beehive, with pairs and small groups of people working at their own tasks all over the studio.

 

It felt good to be needed again, to be a part of something bigger. Peter felt more human than he had in a long time, except, perhaps, for when he’d been with Nathan. He couldn’t regret leaving the estate, but those moments when he was with Nathan, when Nathan was with him, in his arms, inside him, on him, he’d felt human then, too. He might feel useful here as he never had with Nathan, but he wasn’t complete, either. It was dangerous to dig too far into thoughts about Nathan, so Peter went in search of some way he could help.

 

Alai, the man who’d been pointing a gun at him yesterday, had taken Peter under his wing, and was teaching him to mount laser sights on the small arsenal of guns Hiro’s team had assembled. “Like this, see?” Alai said, meticulously lining up a sight with the barrel of a rifle. There was a box of handguns next to the couch, and a pile of rifles on the coffee table. Peter knew nothing about guns, but Alai seemed to know exactly what he was doing.

 

As Peter admired the graceful way Alai handled the rifle, his attention was drawn to the man’s wrist. Instead of the slave tattoo Peter was expecting, Alai’s wrist bore a black tattoo of a different variety: a snake wrapped around a tree, holding an apple in its mouth.

 

“That’s nice.” Peter jerked his chin to indicate Alai’s tattoo.

 

“This?” Alai set the rifle aside for a moment to display his wrist for Peter. “Thanks. We had a girl who was with us for a few months. Great ink artist. She offered to do this so I wouldn’t have to stare at it all the time, having a mark on me that meant I was a slave. Incorporated what was already there into the design.” Alai traced part of the design with his finger, and Peter could see where the godsend symbol fit in.

 

“What’s it mean?” Peter asked.

 

“It’s the tree of knowledge,” Alai explained. “Once you have eaten the fruit of the tree, you can never unlearn what you’ve learned.” Peter raised an eyebrow inquisitively. “Our powers, Peter. I can’t forget what it was like to have my abilities. They’re a part of me, and being cut off from them… Sometimes it’s unbearable.”

 

Peter knew exactly what he meant. That was another part of Peter that had fallen back into place since he’d left the estate, but it still wasn’t enough to complete him. “What’s your… You know. What could you do?” Peter asked.

 

“I could see things far away, if I know what I was looking for. Used to work on my car keys,” Alai explained. “I’d picture them, and then I could see them, and sometimes figure out where they were.”

 

“Neat,” said Peter. It was certainly a more practical use of an ability than anything he could do with, for instance, radioactivity.

 

“Yeah,” said Alai. “Neat.” Peter didn’t miss the bitterness in his voice. “I could see locations, too. Say I wanted to know what’s going on at a place I’ve seen before—the bakery around the corner, for instance. I concentrate on it, and I could see what was happening there.” Alai’s smile was rueful. “Useful when I was in the Army. Avoided a few insurgent ambushes that way, until people started to wonder how I knew what I knew.”

 

“Sorry,” Peter said. He bit his lip right afterwards, knowing how inane it was.

 

Alai just shrugged. “It’s in the past. Nothing to be done about it now.”

 

“Hiro was telling me that Mohinder Suresh has been working with you guys,” Peter said carefully. “I thought this antidote of Mohinder’s meant that we could all use our powers again.”

 

Alai shook his head. “It’s worked for some of us, not for others.”

 

“Not yet, anyway,” Peter offered.

 

“Sure.”

 

Alai clearly didn’t want to talk about it, so Peter didn’t press. Instead, he picked up a rifle from the pile and started to copy what Alai had been doing. “So, this tattoo,” Peter said. “Now there’s no way for anyone to know if you were a slave?”

 

“I’m not sure,” Alai said thoughtfully. “They could test the ink, maybe. There’s probably records somewhere, although they’re real funny about not releasing slaves’ names. They don’t want anything to link people with their old lives. Maybe there’s records in some office somewhere, but I don’t know.”

 

“So, without the mark,” Peter mused, “There’s no way to know if a person is a slave.”

 

Alai shrugged. “I guess not.”

 

Peter thought of Lonzo and Celia, and was reminded of Celia’s comment about privilege keeping her free. He valiantly tried not to picture Nathan. The thought of Nathan as a slave was sickening, so he turned his attention to his own wrist instead, tracing the familiar curve of the symbol with a finger. Such a small thing to determine the course of a person’s future. “Sneetches,” Peter said suddenly.

 

Alai looked over his shoulder, and then back at Peter, confusion written on his face. “What are you talking about?”

 

A germ of an idea was forming in Peter’s mind. “Ever read Doctor Seuss?”

 

“Never.”

 

“There’s a story about Sneetches,” Peter said. “Some had stars on their bellies, and they thought they were better.”

 

Alai stared at him as if he were an alien.

 

“They start putting stars on and taking stars off, and by the end of the book, no one’s sure who started out as which, so they just all get along together,” Peter explained.

 

Alai was still staring.

 

“Never mind,” Peter muttered, setting aside another finished gun. “Just this story my brother read me when I was a kid.”

 

“Yeah,” Alai said. “Must have missed that part of my childhood.” He set down the rifle he’d been working on, and a slow smile spread over his face. “You’re a pretty faster learner.”

 

Peter saw that the entire arsenal of guns had now been fitted with laser sights, and there were just as many guns on his side of the table as on Alai’s. “I guess so,” he said. “How they worked, it just sort of made sense.”

 

“Funny. I have a friend like that,” Alai said thoughtfully. Before Peter could ask who he meant, Alai picked up the pile of rifles. “Shall we get these boxed up?”  
********************

 

Nora tucked her hair behind her ears nervously as she headed to the front parlor. It was never good to be called to a meeting with Mandy. She hoped she wasn’t about to be sold. It wouldn’t surprise her, really, with all the trouble she’d been, spending a week in the hospital. The Petrellis were generally tolerant masters, but no one liked the expense of a sick slave.

 

At the door, Nora hesitated when she saw that Mandy was already there, along with a stranger. Mandy waved her inside, irritated. “This woman is from the hospital,” Mandy said, indicating a smiling blond woman perched on one of the room’s many couches. “She has some follow-up questions for you. Don’t take too long—the housekeeper said you’ve still got a lot of work to do.” With that, Mandy was gone, leaving Nora alone with the stranger.

 

“Hello Nora. It’s nice to meet you.” The woman stood and offered her hand, which Nora shook gingerly.

 

“You’re from the hospital?” Nora asked. No one at the hospital had bothered to shake her hand in the entire week she’d been there.

 

“No, but I thought it would be a good way to get a chance to talk to you. It’s amazing what a fake ID badge will get you.” The woman’s smile was brilliant, and a little confusing. “Have a seat.”

 

“What did you say your name was?” Nora asked.

 

“I didn’t. It’s Elle,” said the woman. “Listen, I know you must have a lot of questions right now, but I want you to know that I’m here to make things better.” She pulled Nora down next to her on the sofa and leaned in conspiratorially. “I help slaves like you.”

 

Nora shot a glance at the parlor door, but it was shut tight. It was just her and Elle. “What do you mean, like me?” she whispered.

 

“Slaves who are having problems with their abilities, Nora. Is that what’s happening to you?”

 

Nora shook her head slowly.

 

Elle cocked her head to the side, wide-eyed and concerned. “I have a friend at the slave hospital, and he was telling me that you had some really unusual symptoms.”

 

She sounded so friendly, but Nora didn’t want to say more than she absolutely had to. Elle might seem nice, but that didn’t mean she really wanted to help. This could easily be a test Mandy had set up to catch her in a lie. “Maybe,” Nora said finally.

 

“I heard Doctor Suresh himself was working on your case.”

 

“It was no big secret,” Nora muttered. “He has a lab here.”

 

Elle leaned forward fractionally. “Really? So you know him?”

 

“Not personally, no,” she said quickly. “He just…” She trailed off, uncertain. Doctor Suresh hadn’t explicitly told her not to discuss his treatment, but it didn’t seem right to talk about it with a stranger.

 

“I understand if you can’t tell me,” Elle said quickly. “I’m just interested in his research, is all. I have some friends who are in the same field. So, about your symptoms. Are you feeling better?”

 

“Mostly. I still have… episodes, sometimes.”

 

Elle cocked her head to the side again, contemplating Nora like a kitten puzzling over a hopping bug. “Do you want to know what I think?” she asked.

 

“What?”

 

“I have a theory that what’s happening to you is very, very special. I think that somehow, you’ve gotten your abilities back.” She took Nora’s hand gently, and turned her arm over to expose the tattoo on her wrist. “The Cure they gave you to take away your abilities isn’t working on you anymore, is it?”

 

Nora’s heart was hammering in her chest so hard she feared Elle could hear it. “I don’t know.”

 

“If that’s what’s happening, it could be so important to a lot of people,” Elle said, turning on her brilliant smile again. “What do you think would happen if slaves could get their abilities back?”

 

Nora thought of Jordan, and how happy he’d been to show her his power, back in that hospital room. She thought of him presenting her with a single rose, thought of the softness of rose petals against her skin. “I don’t know,” she said again.

 

“I told you that we help people like you, Nora. We can make sure you’re safe, and that you won’t hurt yourself, or anyone else,” Elle said. “If you want, we can try to find out what made you regain your abilities. We can even make it stop. What do you think?”

 

“I don’t know… This is my home.” Nora had been at the Petrelli estate since she first became a slave four years ago. Everyone she knew and everything she cared about was here, but if Mandy decided to sell her, all that would be gone. Nora felt a knot form in her stomach.

 

“I know you might be frightened right now, but I promise that I understand what you’re going through,” Elle said.

 

“That’s very kind,” Nora said politely, but Elle’s insistent smile was starting to make her nervous. This woman couldn’t possible understand what it was like to have these frightening abilities, abilities that could hurt her. If Cure wasn’t suppressing her abilities anymore, she might be stuck with them forever.

 

“These friends of mine, the ones I was telling you about, study the same sort of the things that Doctor Suresh does, but they don’t work for the government,” Elle continued. “They’re not out to hurt people like you… and people like me.” Elle reached a hand over the metal coffee table, and Nora jumped off the couch as blue sparks flowed from Elle’s hand into the table and back.

 

“That’s impossible.” Nora stared, feeling panic bubble up from deep inside her. “You’re not—?”

 

“A slave? No. There are some of us who were more fortunate that you, Nora. I understand what it’s like to have an ability. I can help you get control of yours, because if you don’t learn, you might find one day that it’s out of control.”

 

“No,” Nora whispered. It was too much. She didn’t want to have abilities, and she didn’t want this woman to take her away. The knot in her stomach suddenly became a painful cramp, and Nora felt her breath catch in her throat.

 

“Are you okay?” Elle laid a hand on Nora’s arm, and Nora felt a painful jolt as a little blue spark jumped between them. “Oops. Sorry!”

 

Nora stumbled a few steps back, tripping on the edge of the rug and catching herself on the arm of the sofa. The panic was screaming at her to run, but she couldn’t move. Nora gasped for air, and when she looked up, she saw Elle clutching at her throat in confusion, trying to breathe. Her lungs seemed to be working, but she couldn’t get enough air, as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room.

 

“What are you doing?” Elle whispered. She reached for Nora, but her eyes were wide with shock, and she crumpled to the floor after a few steps.

 

Nora shook her head in horror. Her ability hadn’t done this before, hadn’t hurt anyone else. She had to get away. Nora pushed herself away from the couch and stumbled to the door. As soon as she was out of the room, her breath came easier, and she started to run. She ran through the staff hallway all the way to the kitchen, where she found Jordan elbows deep in a sink of soapy-water.

 

“What’s going on?” he asked when he saw her tear-stained face.

 

“There’s a woman,” Nora gasped. “She knows. About our abilities. In the front parlor. I think I killed her.”

 

“Slow down,” Jordan said, hurriedly drying his hands. “What happened?”

 

“Nora?”

 

Nora turned to see Elle standing in the kitchen doorway, and backed into Jordan, who grabbed her shoulders to steady her.

 

“That was a bit of excitement.” Elle rubbed a hand over her throat. “Are you okay?” she asked.

 

Nora nodded. To her surprise, Elle was smiling, a dazzling grin that gave Nora a bad feeling. Elle closed the kitchen door and leaned against it. “That was amazing,” Elle said sincerely. “I think we need to talk.”  
********************

 

Gabriel opened his eyes to the harsh light of his Plexiglas cell. His head was throbbing. “Mohinder?” he called anxiously.

 

“What?”

 

The answer came from close by, and Gabriel realized he had _heard_ it, heard Mohinder. Full of irritation though it might be, at that moment Mohinder’s voice was the sweetest thing Gabriel had ever heard.

 

Gabriel tried to sit up, but was too weak to do more than turn over, able at last to see Mohinder where he sat on the edge of the bed. “What did you do?” he asked.

 

“Be quiet,” Mohinder said. He was making notations on his clipboard.

 

Gabriel’s head might feel like it was going to explode, but he could see and hear, and he wasn’t dead, which was more than he had expected. “I feel better,” he told Mohinder.

 

“Be quiet.” It was almost a growl.

 

“What did you—?”

 

Suddenly, Mohinder’s hand was over his mouth, and he was leaning down close to Gabriel’s ear. “If they know you’re feeling better, they’re going to start wondering why,” Mohinder whispered. “So act sick or I will make you sick.” Mohinder pulled his hand away and calmly returned to his note taking.

 

Gabriel shut his mouth and watched Mohinder work. After another silent minute of comparing the notes on his clipboard with the markings on Gabriel’s IV, his eyes snapped to a point in the lab beyond Gabriel’s vision. He leapt up, closed the cell door, and came back to Gabriel’s side.

 

“We only have a few minutes until the security guard comes back,” Mohinder said. “So I need to fill you in on the plan. I’m getting you out of here.”

 

A thousand questions ran through Gabriel’s head, but the one he asked was, “Why?”

 

“They’ll want to know how I fixed you, and they can’t find out about the antidote,” Mohinder said irritably. “It’s in you now.”

 

“That’s how you fixed me?” Gabriel asked.

 

“Yes. I wasn’t sure it would work, since your deterioration was so far advanced…” Mohinder trailed off, looking out into the lab.

 

“You saved me.”

 

Mohinder shrugged, as if brushing off a fly.

 

“I owe you my life.”

 

Mohinder turned back to Gabriel then, and his eyes were haunted. “I don’t want your life,” Mohinder snarled. Gabriel shrank back from him, and Mohinder shook his head as if to clear it. “Just… We need to get you out of here.”

 

If Mohinder didn’t want to talk about saving him, they could stick to the practicalities. The scientist in Mohinder always took comfort in the details, Gabriel knew. “What are you planning?” he asked meekly.

 

“You need to be able to walk by tonight. That’s when there are the fewest guards. I have an escape route planned.” Mohinder went to stand by the door of the cell, seemingly watching for the guard to come back.

 

“And then where?”

 

“You don’t need to know,” Mohinder snapped.

 

Gabriel was silent for a moment, but when Mohinder reached for the door handle, he asked, “Why are you helping me escape?”

 

Mohinder paused, hand on the door, and he didn’t look back at Gabriel. “I’m still not sure I made the right choice,” he said softly.

 

That shouldn’t have hurt, but it did. Gabriel had hoped Mohinder believed his life was worth saving, but if he did, Mohinder obviously wasn’t ready to admit it. “And helping me escape will make it right?” Gabriel asked. Mohinder’s shoulders tensed, and Gabriel suddenly wished for Matt Parkman’s power so he would have a clue as to what was going on in Mohinder’s head.

 

When Mohinder spoke, it was almost too low for Gabriel to hear. “If I keep an eye on you, I’ll know I didn’t save you just to let you kill again.”

 

Gabriel reviewed their previous conversation in his head, but he was still confused. “What do you mean keep an eye on me?”

 

“I’m coming with you,” Mohinder said.

 

Gabriel tried to sit up and failed, but managed to pull himself into a roughly upright position against the wall. He’d met Alicia Madden, and if that was who Mohinder was about to double-cross, he couldn’t let him do it. “Mohinder, it’s too dangerous.”

 

“Thanks for the advice.” Mohinder punched in the code to open the cell door.

 

“I don’t want you risking your life to get me out,” Gabriel said quickly. “You’ve risked enough. You can leave me here and run. Get yourself away from here. My powers will be back in a few days, right? I can get out then.”

 

“I don’t think so.” Mohinder’s voice had a sharp edge to it, and Gabriel couldn’t tell if it was from fear or anger.

 

“Mohinder—.”

 

“Don’t tell me what to do!” Mohinder shouted, and Gabriel could see he was dangerous, like this. He saw, before, how much it hurt Mohinder to feel sorry for him. He could only imagine how Mohinder felt now that he’d taken action to save a murderer. “I let you live, so I’m responsible,” he said. Gabriel could read the message behind Mohinder’s eyes, screaming at him, begging him: _Prove to me that you’re worth saving. Prove me right._

 

“All right,” Gabriel said gently. “I’ll be ready by tonight.”  


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	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone’s making big plans, and that means consequences are inevitable.

Hiro smoothed out the painting on the table in front of him, breathing in the faint smells of oil paint and charred canvas. He’d been looking at it a long time, trying to recapture the feeling of triumph he’d felt at the Amtrak station in Newark when he’d shown the painting to Ando. The joy of that night had been somewhat overshadowed by his gruesome discovery, upon his return to New York, that someone wearing his face had assassinated the president; something like that tended to put a damper on anyone’s enthusiasm. Now though, Hiro was sure destiny was back on track. Peter’s finding them was a sign—it had to be.

 

There was a soft knock at the door to the den. “Hey Hiro,” said Peter. “I thought you’d be in here.”

 

“Peter!” Hiro didn’t try to stop the smile that welled up from the deepest part of him. “I was just thinking of you.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

Hiro took the short distance to the door in two energetic bounds, closing it behind Peter. “I have something to show you.”

 

“Hiro,” Peter began. “Slow down a second.”

 

Hiro stopped, confused, and took in Peter’s concerned face. He steeled himself for the worst.

 

“I wanted to say thanks for letting me stay here. Your team, they’re really great.”

 

“But?” Hiro prompted.

 

“No but. I just haven’t talked to you in three years, and now you’ve barely said ten words to me since I got here.” Peter shook his head. “Things have been a little weird.”

 

Hiro replayed the events of the last few days in his mind and frowned. “I’m sorry,” he said. “What happened with the president, it was very much a shock to me. When you showed up…” He shrugged sheepishly. “It seemed as if everything would be all right again. I just wanted to pick up where I left off.”

 

“Everyone seems really busy,” Peter continued. “I don’t want to mess up what you guys have going here.”

 

Hiro shook his head urgently. “No, no, no. Until you came, we were doing nothing at all.  
For a few days, things were very bad. I was not a very good leader.”

 

“Hiro, I’m sure—,” Peter began.

 

Hiro cut him off. “I let myself be discouraged,” he said. “It was very difficult for me. Everyone thinking I’m a villain.”

 

“ _I_ know you’re not,” Peter jumped in. “These guys know you’re not. They really look up to you, I can see it.” Hiro started to say something, but Peter waved him into silence. “And there’s something else. I wasn’t doing so well, either. It’s been a really long time since I felt like I could really help someone. But your team… They help people, don’t they.”

 

“They’re heroes,” Hiro said simply.

 

“And you’re their leader,” Peter said. When Hiro shook his head again, Peter said, more firmly, “You are. After…” Peter gestured with his wrist. “I never thought I’d be able to help anyone.”

 

“You don’t need powers to be a hero,” Hiro said automatically. “But now that you have your powers back, it doesn’t hurt.” His eyes darted from Peter to the painting, and back again. “I want to show you something.”

 

He darted over to the table and smoothed out the painting, even though it was already lying perfectly flat. Peter came up behind him, eyes fixed on the canvas.

“Is that one of Isaac’s?” he asked. Hiro thought he might have detected a note of awe, or perhaps fear, in Peter’s voice.

 

Hiro nodded. “It shows what we need to do. It’s your destiny to help us.”

 

Transfixed, Peter reached out to touch the canvas, but snatched his hand back again before he made contact. “That’s me and Nathan,” he said softly.

 

“Yes.” Hiro nodded excitedly. “I think you and Nathan are supposed to help save the world… again.”

 

To Hiro’s surprise, Peter turned away from the table. “Hiro, I don’t know if Nathan and I…”

 

Hiro waited, but apparently Peter couldn’t bring himself to say anything more. “When’s the last time you talked to him?” Hiro asked.

 

“He rescued me,” Peter said. His voice had a strange, flat quality to it that Hiro didn’t recognize. “He found me at an auction, and he got me out.”

 

Hiro nodded sagely. “He’s been looking for you a long time.”

 

“Has he?” Peter fixed his eyes on Hiro’s with a sudden sharp edge to his inquisitiveness.

 

Hiro didn’t want Peter to delve too far into that topic, so he turned back to the painting. “Why do you think he won’t want to save the world?”

 

“He’s done things, Hiro. You know as well as I do. And now that he’s president?” Peter shrugged helplessly.

 

Hiro thought of Nathan’s work as president in the nightmare future he’d once visited. No matter what Nathan had done already, in this timeline, Hiro knew he was still one of the good guys. He had to be, if Isaac’s painting was going to come true. “He’s a good man, Peter.”

 

“I know. It’s just….”

 

“What?”

 

“I don’t know how to be with him anymore,” Peter muttered. Then, quickly, “Things are different between us, is all.”

 

“Is it something I can help with?”

 

“No,” Peter said, half to himself. “No I guess it’s not. It’s just between me and him.”

 

Hiro nodded again. He’d known that all along, just as he’d told Ando. Peter and Nathan had to work things out between themselves if Isaac’s painting was going to come true. “The painting,” Hiro said suddenly. “There is something.” He pointed to the corner that was burned away. “It’s damaged.”

 

“Yeah.” Peter turned his attention back to the canvas, leaning in to examine the charred section. “Who is that supposed to be?”

 

“I don’t know,” Hiro said. “But, you can paint like Isaac, yes? You could finish the painting?”

 

Peter shook his head slowly. “Hiro, my powers aren’t… I mean, I can use them, sort of, but I never had that much control in the first place.”

 

“You just need to keep trying,” Hiro said. “I was using my powers before, when we rescued Micah and Molly, but since then… They are not so reliable.”

 

“I just want to make sure I don’t hurt anyone,” Peter said carefully.

 

There was a quick knock at the door, and Ando poked his head in. “We’re ready,” he said, and ducked out again.

 

“Come on,” said Hiro, taking a deep breath. “It’s time for a team meeting.”  
*******************

 

“—just walk in without an appointment!”

 

Nathan glanced up from his desk at the sound of Claire’s protest to see Alicia Madden striding into the Oval Office as if she had every right to be there. She was followed closely by an angry Claire Bennet.

 

“Mister President, we need to talk,” said Alicia.

 

“Sir, I told her you were busy,” Claire fumed.

 

Nathan held up a hand to forestall further protests. “It’s okay, Claire. It’s fine.”

 

Sullenly, and with one swift dagger glance at Alicia’s back, Claire left, closing the door to the office.

 

“Alicia,” Nathan said politely. “I thought you were out of town.”

 

“Just got back. Alan Ginsberg gave me a call.” Alicia settled herself into one of the chairs by Nathan’s desk.

 

“Is that right?”

 

“Yes, about your new… strategy,” she said. The last word carried some disgust, as if Nathan’s plan was obviously unworthy of the name.

 

Nathan was unimpressed. “Yes?”

 

“I also had an update to share with you. About Doctor Suresh.”

 

“What about him?” Nathan asked, keeping his tone casual.

 

“Everything had been going smoothly,” Alicia said. “The good doctor assured me that he was making progress with his research, although his test subject was in very poor health.”

 

 _Had_ been going smoothly. Nathan knew her phrasing was deliberate. “But?” he prompted.

 

“It turns out Doctor Suresh isn’t as loyal as we all thought.”

“What does that mean?” Nathan asked. His mind raced through all the possible implications of Mohinder’s arrest. If the worst happened, Nathan would have to find some way to shut him up before he told anyone about Peter.

 

“Your friend Doctor Suresh walked out of the Homeland Security building with a high security slave,” Alicia said. “Disappeared.”

 

Disappeared. They didn’t have him in custody. He hadn’t had a chance to put Peter in danger. Nathan didn’t let the relief show on his face. Then he processed the rest of what Alicia had said. “With Sylar?” he asked.

 

“Yes, Mister President.”

 

Nathan tried to think of a scenario in which Mohinder would want to rescue Sylar, and came up blank. But with Sylar in tow, Mohinder’s options were very limited. Nathan was afraid he knew where Mohinder would go: to Hiro Nakamura. That’s exactly where Peter might be, if Peter had any brains. If Mohinder had put his brother in danger, Nathan would gladly have Mohinder handed over to Homeland Security. If something else was going on, it might be in Nathan’s better interest to keep Mohinder safe. Without knowing what the situation was, Nathan was stuck waiting, and there was nothing Nathan hated more than feeling helpless.

 

“I’m sure this is upsetting to you,” Alicia said. “I know Doctor Suresh was a personal friend.”

 

Nathan scowled as he realized Alicia had interpreted his silence as weakness. Let her underestimate him; he knew what he was doing. This new development didn’t change his plans, not too badly. Either the new crackdown would bring Peter back or it wouldn’t, and he’d have to deal with whichever possibility came to pass. “This can work for us, Alicia,” he said, choosing his words carefully as if the idea had just occurred to him. “It gives us a jumping off point for the new operation.”

 

“Doctor Suresh turned traitor and broke out a slave who authorities were questioning about the assassination,” Alicia offered. “Homeland Security is renewing its efforts to gather information about this individual and his known associates, and will act quickly in bringing the traitorous Doctor Suresh to justice.”

 

“Exactly,” said Nathan. He wondered if she’d come up with that beforehand, or if she was just that good at extemporaneous propaganda. “Alicia, this is a gamble. If Sylar escapes, it’s going to make us look very stupid.”

 

“Don’t worry sir,” Alicia said. Her jaw had a determined set that Nathan had seen before. “I’ve already put my best teams on their trail. We’ll bring Sylar back. Him and Doctor Suresh.”

 

“See that you do,” said Nathan. As Alicia left, he wondered if there was any chance in hell that he could pull Suresh out of the fire this time.  
*******************

 

Hiro looked out at the faces of his friends. They seemed a very different group from the sullen, disheartened lot that had been moping around the apartment a few days previously. He sincerely hoped that this latest development wasn’t about to plunge them back into depression. “It is time to move again,” Hiro announced.

 

There was some grumbling from the ranks, but not much. Hiro held up a hand, and the noise subsided. “Homeland Security has gotten more aggressive since the assassination. We need to go somewhere more remote, where there is room for us all.”

 

“I hear Mexico’s nice this time of year,” Lara said. Some of the others chuckled.

 

“A contact of mine has offered us the use of a summer home,” Hiro explained. “It’s a cabin up in the Adirondacks, out in the woods. It’s isolated enough so that no one will bother us.”

 

“A summer home? Isn’t it a little cold for a summer home?” Matt asked.

 

“They don’t make summer homes like they used to,” Peter answered him. “I sincerely doubt that Celia Hammerlund spends the summer in a rustic log cabin.”

 

Hiro nodded. He’d never seen the place, but no hideout Celia had provided so far had been anything less than perfect.

 

“Are we still going to be distributing Cure?” Alai asked. “What about the training with Dawson’s people? From out there, how will we have contact with other cells?”

 

Hiro took a deep breath and released it before answering. “We won’t have contact with other cells,” he said.

 

There was an uncomfortable silence. “This feels like running and hiding,” Lara said at last. “How are we going to help from the middle of the woods?”

 

“We can’t stay in the city, Lara. There are too many of us together,” Ando explained. “If Peter can find us, Homeland Security might be able to find us, too.”

 

“Isn’t there another place in the city we can go?” Dean asked. “Moving to a different apartment has always worked before.”

 

“What has worked before is not enough any more,” Hiro said. “You’ve all seen how things have changed, even in the past week. There’s something we have to prepare for, something big. I promise it is important to the cause, but we can’t do it if we stay in the city.” Many of Hiro’s team nodded their understanding, but a few still looked uncertain. “If any of you want to part ways, to go it alone or to work with another cell, this would be the time to do it,” Hiro said gently.

 

Suddenly, there was a pounding at the door, and everyone tensed. “See?” Ando said as he drew his gun. Since Peter’s unexpected appearance a few days ago, everyone who knew how to handle a weapon had taken to keeping themselves armed. Matt and Alai reached for their weapons as well, and Hiro had already drawn his sword.

 

The knocking came again.

 

“No one was watching the alarms?” Ando asked incredulously.

 

“You said we should all come to the meeting!” Dean protested.

 

“Hiro?” came a voice from behind the door. “Hiro, please. It’s Mohinder.”

 

“Mohinder?” Peter repeated.

 

Hiro darted forward and flung the door open to see a ragged-looking Mohinder Suresh supporting Gabriel Gray, who was hanging onto Mohinder’s shoulder, barely on his feet.

 

“Gabriel!” Ando and Alai rushed forward to catch him as he practically pitched through the door.

 

That left Hiro to catch hold of Mohinder, who looked like he might be about to fall over himself.

 

From somewhere behind him, Hiro heard Peter’s incredulous, “Sylar?”

 

“Yes, yes, we’re all shocked that Sylar’s with us now. Get over it,” Mohinder snapped.

 

“Okay.” Peter drew back, startled by Mohinder’s vehemence. “I just wanted to make sure we were all on the same page.”

 

“Mohinder, what happened?” Hiro asked.

 

“It’s a long story,” Mohinder panted. “I’m sorry, I didn’t have anywhere else to go, but I might have put you in danger. If they were able to follow me here…”

 

“Let’s load up,” Hiro said to the others. “Looks like we’re heading to the summer home right now.”  
*****************

 

“I’m sick of this,” Candice said. She knew Jessica hated complaints, but at this point, she found it difficult to care. “For starters, I don’t particularly like being a man.”

 

“Shut it, Candice,” Jessica said, and quickened her steps down the corridor.

 

“Excuse me?” Candice stopped walking, planting herself stubbornly in the middle of the hall and drawing herself up to her full height—well, Hiro’s full height, which was a little less than she was used to. “I seem to be the one doing all the work, and I don’t get a lot of appreciation around here.”

 

Jessica came strolling back. “I’m sorry,” she said, sounding anything but. “Shut it, _please._ These people are important. There aren’t that many of us, and we need these people’s help if we’re going to do this.”

 

“I know,” Candice said sullenly.

 

“I mean it, Candice.” Jessica leaned in menacingly, and Candice pushed up the glasses she was wearing. “They’re real leaders with lots of resources at their disposal. We’re talking about big players.”

 

“I know.”

 

“So unless you want to see how well your little tricks hold up against bullets—.”

 

“I get it, okay!” Candice said, turning away at last. She hated when Jessica started bullying like this, and she was counting the days until she would no longer have to put up with it. “It’s not like I’ve never done something like this before,” she added under her breath. Of course, before she’d always been able to meet the person she was mimicking. She felt a little more nervous about playing the role of Hiro Nakamura with nothing more to go on than old videos and Jessica’s description. She wasn’t going to share that concern with Jessica, though, especially not now. Candice knew too well what happened to people when they were no longer useful to Jessica.

 

Jessica acknowledged her agreement with a curt nod of her head, and started back down the corridor.

 

Candice cleared her throat, and Jessica stopped. She wasn’t quite done yet. Her plans would go more smoothly if Jessica was good and irritate before they walked into this meeting. “Are we sure we want to do this?”

 

“Yes,” Jessica said in the sugar-sweet tone that meant she was losing her patience.

 

“There’s no going back if we involve these people,” Candice said careful. Jessica’s face was unreadable. “Haven’t we done enough?”

 

Jessica tossed her hair over her shoulder, looking up at the ceiling as if appealing to God for patience. “What did we accomplish by assassinating the president, Candice? Aside from screwing up Hiro Nakamura’s reputation?”

 

“We sent a message,” Candice ventured.

 

“Great,” Jessica said shortly. “And now someone else is in charge. Nathan Petrelli. Why is that a good thing?”

 

“I’m sure you’ll be happy to tell me,” Candice said. She hated being treated like she was stupid, but she’d do it if it meant giving Jessica a false sense of superiority.

 

“Petrelli is weak, Candice,” Jessica said. Now that Candice was letting her talk, she seemed eager to prove the soundness of her strategy. “He has secrets, he has lies, and he has a family. That makes him vulnerable.”

 

“Great,” said Candice. “Also, if I have to be one of them, I’d much rather look in the mirror and see Petrelli’s face than President Devlin’s.” She shifted her illusion into the taller form of Nathan Petrelli and struck a heroic pose. Jessica just stared at her, expression cold and murderous, until Candice changed back into Hiro. “You’re no fun,” Candice protested.

 

“Let’s go,” said Jessica. She grabbed Candice’s arm with more force than was necessary. Candice congratulated herself on a scene well played. Jessica was no diplomat on the best of days, and today she wouldn’t be thinking much beyond making sure that Candice stuck to the plan.

 

Jessica steered them to a solid-looking wooden door at the end of the hallway. She looked over Candice’s illusion, nodded her satisfaction, and then flung open the door. This conference room was stocked with cheap furniture that looked like it dated back to the 80s, just like every other room in this building that Jessica was “borrowing” from a businessman she’d killed. There were only two people at the table: a balding, middle-aged man and a young woman whose eyes glinted dangerously at the newcomers.

 

“Bob, Elle, this is the famous Hiro Nakamura,” Jessica said. “Hiro, this is Robert Bishop, and this is Elle.”

 

Bob said something in another language, and Candice started to panic. If he expected this meeting to be conducted in Japanese, the game was over. Beside her, Candice saw Jessica tense up; she hadn’t known about the connection either. Then Bob gave a genial laugh. “I’m afraid my Japanese is a little rusty,” he said. “Since your father died, I haven’t had anyone to practice with. It’s good to see you again. You’re certainly not the little boy I remember.”

 

“Yes. How things change,” said Candice, grateful for the reprieve. “Shall we?” Candice took a seat across from Bob, which left Jessica to face Elle.

 

“I hear you’re looking for some assistance, Hiro,” Bob said.

 

“We’ve made some plans,” Candice said carefully. “We’re just exploring the best way to put them into motion.”

 

“I liked what you did in Greensboro,” Elle said suddenly. She was leaning forward, and Candace got the impression that if there wasn’t a table between them, Elle would have had her hands all over “Hiro.” Candice filed that away in her mind. She thought that Bob was the one to win over here, but if she had to get into Elle’s head, at least she knew a potential strategy.

 

“What we’re planning is the logical next step,” Jessica broke in. “There’s a power vacuum right now. Petrelli can’t last long as President.”

 

“Maybe,” Bob said. He seemed unconvinced, and Candice held back a smile at Jessica’s rashness. She should know better than to show her cards too soon. “If you’re planning on taking some action,” Bob continued, “You’d better do it fast. This latest crackdown has been hard on everyone. We’ve lost some good people.”

 

“Adam had it coming, Daddy,” Elle broke in.

 

“Not now, Elle,” Bob said, and patted her hand distractedly. “In all the years you’ve been around, Hiro, you’ve never done anything like this. Why now?”

 

“The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results,” Candice said sagely. She didn’t know if Hiro was the type to go for all that Zen crap, but it was worth a try. “I decided it was time to try something new.”

 

 

“You certainly got our attention,” Bob said. “My team is ready to back you up, if you’re ready to take action.”

 

“We’re ready,” Jessica began, and Candice dug the heel of her boot into Jessica’s toe.

 

“Or we will be, once we know we can count on you,” Candice said, with a graceful nod of her head in Bob’s direction. Jessica pulled her foot away from Candice, and her smile became overly sweet, but Candice ignored her. Let Jessica look like the reckless terrorist. Candice wanted Bob on _her_ side when it came down to her or Jessica. Bob and Elle were big time, like Jessica kept saying. Jessica, for all her posturing, just didn’t have the same air of leadership as this balding, middle-aged bureaucrat. “We recognize the value of cooperation and organization,” Candice added, and was rewarded with a pleasant smile from Bob.

 

“What we’re planning is going to require some firepower,” Jessica jumped in. Candice refrained from rolling her eyes, but it was a near thing. Trust Jessica to get right to the details, with none of the finesse a true diplomat needed. Unless Candice had entirely lost the knack of reading people, Bob noticed her clumsiness, too.

 

“If there’s going to be violence,” Elle broke in. “We have about a dozen who can make things interesting.”

 

Candice held back a smile. Bob might be the one in charge here, but it seemed Elle was able to get away with whatever she wanted. That might be useful if Candace ever needed to drive a wedge between them. Of course, that would be in the future. After Jessica was out of the picture.

 

Bob was nodding reluctantly. “If you’re planning some sort of full-on assault, that’s what you can count on. The rest of us have talents that lie elsewhere.”

 

“And there’s the new girl!” Elle added. “I think she has the potential to provide some crowd control, don’t you?”

 

“I told you to leave her alone. This is not the time,” Bob said, and he seemed at last to be genuinely irritated. “The point is Mister Nakamura, our people are ready for a fight, if we know it’s worth our while.”

 

Candice managed to rein in a grin to a more appropriate polite smile. Bob had addressed Hiro, acknowledged Hiro as the leader, rather than Jessica. That was definitely a step in the right direction. “Did _you_ like what happened in Greensboro, Bob?” Candice asked.

 

“I think it got people’s attention,” Bob said reluctantly.

 

“Then it’s time we _did_ something with their attention,” said Candice. “Can we count on you?”  
******************

 

If Hiro’s team hadn’t been used to evacuating at a moment’s notice, they would never have gotten out before the police showed up at the apartment. Gabriel, unable to help, barely able to stand, watched as everyone sprung into action, grabbing only what was important or incriminating. There hadn’t been much time for planning. Hiro had taken one group, Lara and Alai another, and Gabriel had ended up in a van with Mohinder, Peter, Dean and, at the wheel, a very nervous Ando.

 

Sitting shotgun, Dean spoke into the walkie-talkie Micah had pressed into his hand before they’d taken off. “We’re out of the city,” he said. “No pursuit we can see.”

 

“Ten-four,” came Micah’s voice. “Proceed to destination. Will advise of further developments. Team one out.”

 

“Should never give a fourteen-year-old a walkie-talkie,” Dean muttered as he set the receiver aside.

 

Gabriel huddled miserably on the bench seat next to Mohinder. He felt cold and hot at once, his head throbbed, and it was taking most of his concentration to avoid vomiting. If he’d ever been in worse condition for a high speed chase, he wasn’t sure when. He forced his eyes open to see trees rushing by in the semi-darkness outside. They must be well out of the city. It felt like they’d been driving forever.

 

Gabriel caught Peter watching him from the facing bench seat. He hadn’t seen Peter since Kirby Plaza, but at the apartment his former nemesis hadn’t made as much of a fuss as Gabriel would have expected. When they’d piled into the van, Gabriel had seen Peter watching him, seen his sharp gaze slide to the tattoo on Gabriel’s wrist, and since then he’d been very quiet.

 

“You look like death,” Peter said when he caught Gabriel’s eye.

 

“I know,” Gabriel croaked.

 

“Don’t talk. You’ll waste your strength,” said Mohinder tightly. Gabriel looked at him, but Mohinder was steadfastly staring up ahead, watching the road as if he was afraid Ando would drive them into a ditch.

 

A crackle sounded over the walkie-talkie, followed by Micah’s voice again. “Team three, are you still with us?”

 

“We’re here,” said Dean.

 

“We’ve got a problem,” Micah said. “Alai says there are helicopters searching the highways. Lara’s group managed to avoid theirs, but Alai says there’s one after you guys.”

 

“Alai’s powers are working?” Ando asked, tearing his eyes from the road for a second to exchange confused looks with Dean.

 

“Duh,” said Micah.

 

“Where’s this alleged helicopter?” Dean asked.

 

There was a pause and more static before Micah responded. “Alai can see it, but he can’t find you.”

 

“So how does he know it’s following us?” Dean asked irritably.

 

“It is.” Peter was looking out the back window of the van, as if he could see miles away through the pitch blackness of the forest. “Yeah, I can see it. I’m a terrible judge of distance, but it can’t be that far away. We passed an Amoco billboard a while back, didn’t we? That’s where they are. They’re searching the road,” Peter said.

 

There was silence for a moment. “You can use Alai’s power?” Dean asked finally.

 

Peter turned back to the rest of them, and the faraway look left his eyes. “I guess I can.”

 

“That billboard was maybe four miles back,” said Ando. “They’re very close.”

 

“Maybe we can pull off the road, find a side road?” Dean suggested. “If they only search the highway—.”

 

“Not in this van,” said Alai. “We wouldn’t get far. Get the guns out.”

 

Turning very pale, Dean held the walkie talkie back to his lips. “This is team three. Peter says the ‘copter’s about four miles back. We may be having a situation here shortly. Stand by.” He reached under the seat for a case that Gabriel knew held an assortment of guns.

 

Mohinder looked stricken, and Gabriel didn’t need Matt Parkman’s power to know that the self-recrimination had started. If anyone got hurt because Mohinder had led Homeland Security to them, Mohinder would never forgive himself. Gabriel couldn’t let that happen.

 

Gabriel turned to Peter. “Your powers are working?” he asked. “Really working?”

 

“Why does it matter?” Mohinder asked.

 

“Are they?” Gabriel asked.

 

“For the most part,” Peter said warily.

 

Gabriel nodded in satisfaction. “Ando, stop the van,” he called.

 

Ando met his gaze in the rear view mirror. “Why?”

 

“Sylar, this is not the time to get car sick,” Mohinder snapped.

 

“Stop the van,” Gabriel said.

 

“We have a helicopter chasing us!” Ando protested.

 

“And we’re not going to outrun it in a 1994 Chevy Astro,” Gabriel said calmly. “I know what to do. Stop the van.”

 

With a nervous sigh that sounded suspiciously like a protest, Ando slammed on the breaks and started to pull off onto the shoulder.

 

“You’re seriously going to listen to him?” Peter asked.

Ando ignored him. As soon as they came to a stop, Dean was handing out guns.

 

“Come on Peter,” Gabriel said. He wrenched the side door of the van open and stumbled out into the night. His legs were unsteady under him, so he slid down to the ground alongside of the van as he heard the others pile out. “Turn off the engine,” he called to Ando.

 

“Why?” Ando asked, but he did it anyway.

 

“We want the van to be able to start back up when we’re done,” Gabriel explained.

 

“Done with what?” Mohinder asked.

 

“What are you going to do?” Peter asked. “You can barely stand.”

 

“I’m not going to do anything,” Gabriel said. “You are.”

 

“Team three!” Micah’s voice came through the walkie talkie again. “Molly says you’ve stopped. Are you okay?”

 

“We’re fine. We’ve got a plan.” Dean let go of the talk button. “We have a plan, right?”

 

“Peter,” Gabriel said sharply. “Ted’s power.”

 

“What about it?” Peter asked.

 

“You’re going to use it to disable the helicopter.”

 

“What?” Peter backed up a step, away from where Gabriel was leaning against the van’s front tire. “No.”

 

“You can’t be serious,” said Mohinder.

 

“Peter, you have to do this,” Gabriel said evenly. If everyone would just stay calm, they had a chance of getting out of this. Getting arrested again wasn’t an option for any of them, and anyway, Gabriel imagined that arresting them was somewhere below “blow their brains out” and “burn them to death” on Homeland Security’s to-do list.

 

“If I use Ted’s power, I’ll blow us up along with the helicopter!” Peter shouted, crossing his arms across his chest.

 

“No, don’t blow it up! You’d kill the people inside,” Gabriel said, exasperated. “We’re going to use an electromagnetic pulse to disable the engine. When they know they’re going to crash, they can bail out.”

 

“A _what_ pulse?” Peter asked.

 

“This is ridiculous,” said Mohinder.

 

A few feet away, Dean and Ando were loading clips into their guns. “No way a handgun’s going to bring down a helicopter,” Dean muttered.

 

“We have to do something,” Ando said gravely.

 

In the distance, Gabriel could hear the sound of a motor, of blades chopping at the air. It was getting closer. “Peter!” He slapped the ground in front of him to get Peter’s attention again. “Just listen. It’s the same energy, but brighter instead of hot.”

 

“What are you saying?” Peter asked. He was getting more agitated by the second.

 

“Gather the energy, like in your hand.” Gabriel tried to create a ball of energy in his own palm, but of course, nothing happened. If they were going to pull this off, he had to get through to Peter. “It has to be bright, like a high note, or like the sky on a clear day.”

 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Peter was listening, but by the frustration on his face, Gabriel knew that he genuinely did not understand.

 

“Is that a light?” Dean asked. He was pointing back down the road the way they’d come. Gabriel followed his glance to see what definitely looked like a spotlight beaming down on the road from overhead. It was approaching rapidly.

 

“Peter. Pay attention. This is important,” Gabriel said. “Burn bright, not hot.”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Now Peter was almost hysterical.

 

Mohinder’s sharp intake of breath clued Gabriel in that the chopper was finally in sight. He didn’t bother to look though, instead fixing his attention on Peter, who looked like he was about to have a panic attack.

 

“Empath,” Gabriel muttered. “Of course.” Gabriel reached up from where he sat on the ground, catching hold of Peter’s hand, giving him a physical point on which to focus his mind, calm his panic. “The heat, it’s like anger, or fear. Brightness is purer, like wanting to do the right thing, or like…” Gabriel almost choked on the irony. “Love.”

 

Peter nodded thoughtfully, and Gabriel let go of his hand. Peter closed his eyes, a look of concentration etched on his face. Gabriel saw his hands begin to glow, faintly lighting up the road and the forest around them.

 

“Holy shit,” Dean muttered. He was almost drowned out by the sound of the approaching helicopter.

 

“Hold the light inside, just hold onto it, until you’re filled with it,” Gabriel coaxed as Peter’s light began to grow. “When you can’t hold it anymore, you’ll just open yourself up, and it’ll go. You won’t explode.”

 

“If you’re going to do something, do it fast,” said Ando. “Otherwise, we need to run.”

 

“This is Homeland Security,” came a booming loudspeaker voice from somewhere above them. “Put down your weapons and get down on the ground.”

 

“Do it, Peter,” Gabriel said.

 

Peter opened his eyes, and Gabriel noticed that they were glowing with pale orange fire. “You had better be right,” Peter said.

 

“I am,” said Gabriel. “Hurry. Before they start shooting, please.”

 

Peter closed his eyes again, and a bright white pulse emanated from his body, resounding in Gabriel’s chest and sending the others stumbling back a few steps. Above their heads, there was a shrill mechanical squeal. The spotlight that had been blinding them winked out, leaving the roadside in semi-darkness, with Peter’s afterglow the only illumination.

 

“Holy shit,” said Dean.

 

Gabriel watched, as if in slow motion, as the helicopter blades began to lose speed. “We need to go now,” Gabriel said. With effort, he was able to pull himself up. “Ando,” he said sharply. “Come on.”

 

“Right,” said Ando, still staring up at the chopper, which was now losing altitude. Faintly, they could hear the shouts from the crew as they tried to figure out what was wrong.

 

“Come on,” Gabriel said. He stumbled the few steps to Ando’s side, and grabbed him by the arm. Ando looked at him, eyes wide and dilated from the pulse. “Come on,” Gabriel repeated. “We have to get out of here.”

 

“Right,” said Ando. At last he moved, shaking off his shock, and grabbed Dean’s arm, pulling him back toward the van.

 

Gabriel looked back at Peter, who was staring at his hands as the last of the nuclear glow faded away. Gingerly, Gabriel put a hand on his shoulder. “You did it,” he said.

 

“Yeah,” said Peter.

 

“We’ve got to go. Get in.” Gabriel guided Peter gently to the van. Mohinder had already gotten inside, so Gabriel climbed in, slid the door closed and collapsed back onto his bench seat, totally drained. To everyone’s relief, the van started, and Ando pulled them back onto the road, accelerating as fast as he could.

 

Gabriel laid his head back on the seat and tried to concentrate on his breathing. He felt worse than ever, and so tired that he wanted to sleep for a week. He opened his eyes to make sure that Peter was okay. He looked fine; tucked into a corner of his seat, still staring at his hands.

 

Gabriel prepared to close his eyes again, but he couldn’t resist sneaking a glance at Mohinder. Mohinder was watching him again, but this time there was something else behind his eyes. It might have been respect.  


* * *


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel builds a tentative alliance with an old nemesis, Bennet chases a killer, and Nathan reaches out.

_The water was hot, almost scalding, but Sylar kept his hands under the flow anyway. It didn’t matter as long as he could get the blood off._

__

 

_This kill had been easy—the girl hadn’t put up much of a fight—but it was a different power that was gnawing at him now. A priest in Boston had given him unwanted glimpses into the minds and memories of others, and that ability was now compounding the problems he’d been having for weeks._

__

 

_Drawings of Mohinder, scrawled on papers ripped from a sketch pad, littered the floor of the bathroom. Sylar kicked at them, sending several flying. His eyes lit on one drawing, fluttering to a landing next to the base of the sink: a close-up of Mohinder’s face, eyes wide in terror, a thin line of blood dripping down his forehead._

__

 

 _Sylar growled, snatching up the drawing and crumpling it. The fear in those eyes was too like the fear of the girl he’d just killed. It was too close this time; the priest’s power had put him_ in _her fear. It wasn’t merely reading thoughts, not like the cop in New York, the one that had escaped him. No, he’d felt her terror, seen the event from her eyes, experienced the fear he’d inspired. Once, that might have made him proud. Now, with the drawings of Mohinder staring up at him, it only made him feel sick. It was hard not to imagine the same panic behind Mohinder’s eyes, terror and despair in brown eyes that should hold warmth and intelligence._

__

 

_Damn Isaac Mendez. A new ability wasn’t meant to be a weakness. It was meant to make him stronger, make him the pinnacle of his kind. Instead, it made him fear for the future. What he’d done to this girl tonight he was going to do to Mohinder Suresh, and for what? He was not insane, he was special. He was doing all this for good reason, and killing Mohinder was not part of that plan._

__

 

_Again the sharp pain of the girl’s memory assaulted him, her unreasoning panic when she realized what Sylar was going to do. Would Mohinder scream like that? Would he be so afraid? Or would he go quietly? Mohinder’s frightened eyes stared up at him from a dozen sketches in silent answer._

__

 

_“Leave me alone!” he told the Mohinder drawings, and thrust his hands back under the scalding water._

 

Gabriel sat up in bed. He’d been having that nightmare again, the same bad memories resurfacing, worrying at him, but this time something had woken him up. His heightened hearing was coming back, he knew, because he could hear everyone in the house breathing, mostly the deep and even breath of sleep. Even two days later, they were all still exhausted from the ordeal of making it to this safe haven. Somewhere in the house, though, someone else must be having bad dreams. Gabriel got out of bed, wincing as his bare feet hit the cold floor. He’d just go find out who was making noise, that was all. Then he’d come back to bed.

 

He knew after only a few steps beyond his own door that it was Peter. Even in sleepy murmurs Gabriel could identify his voice. He stood outside the door of Peter’s bedroom, listening. He was muttering something too garbled for even Gabriel to make out. And he was getting louder. Gabriel pushed open the door. Peter was shivering on the bed, sweat glistening on his face in the moonlight from the window. Gabriel watched him for a moment, hovering indecisively between going in and fleeing back to his room.

 

Now Peter was almost shouting. In a few more minutes, he’d wake up everyone in the house. “Peter,” Gabriel called tentatively from the doorway. This was a bad idea. Peter continued to toss and turn. “Wake up,” he said, a little louder. Peter clutched at the sheets, nearly tearing them apart in the throes of whatever nightmare he was having. The room gave a little shudder, like a mini earthquake. Peter had better not TK the house down. “Wake up,” Gabriel said, taking a few steps closer to the bed. Still, Peter didn’t hear him. Gabriel closed the rest of the distance to the bed. “Peter, wake up!” He gingerly put a hand on the sleeping man’s shoulder.

 

Peter gave a sharp yell, and Gabriel found himself being thrown against the wall. Unable to catch himself with his powers still not working correctly, he slammed into the unforgiving wall and slid down to the floor, hard. Now Peter was sitting up in bed, finally awake, and staring at him. Gabriel returned the stare sheepishly.

 

“I shouldn’t have surprised you,” he said softly. “Sorry. I just thought you might want to wake up.”

 

Peter threw the covers off and swung his legs over the side of the bed, clad in sweatpants that had come from somewhere in the house’s supply of mothballed clothes. “It was just a nightmare,” he said, shaking his head. “What’s wrong with you?”

 

Putting his hand to the back of his head, Gabriel felt the wet stickiness of blood. He winced. “It serves me right for coming in here. I just didn’t want everyone else to wake up.”

 

Peter saw the blood on Gabriel’s hand, and in a moment he was kneeling beside him, examining the back of his head. “I didn’t mean to throw you that hard,” he said. “I guess I don’t have much control over that one.”

 

“You should be able to…” Gabriel began, but stumbled to a halt. It seemed strange to discuss his abilities, especially with Peter. He’d taught himself to use all of his powers as he acquired them, but he’d never had the opportunity or the desire to discuss theory with anyone, even if they would have understood. But here was Peter, who could do everything Gabriel could and more. Before, when he’d talked Peter through creating an electromagnetic pulse, it had been almost therapeutic. Teaching Peter helped Gabriel look at him a different way: not as a nemesis, anymore, but as a friend. It wasn’t likely that Peter shared that sentiment, however, so Gabriel held his peace and concentrated on pressing his hand to the back of his head to slow the bleeding.

 

Peter was still staring at him. “Able to what?”

 

“Lots of things,” Gabriel said slowly. He lowered his hand from his head and regarded Peter thoughtfully. “The telekinesis is really versatile.”

 

“Like how?”

 

“Never mind,” Gabriel muttered. It was time to leave Peter to his own devices, before their roughhousing woke anyone else. He pushed himself up, unsteadily.

 

Peter grabbed onto Gabriel’s arm, maybe to steady him, maybe to prevent him from leaving. “Tell me how,” Peter demanded.

 

“Cutting, for instance,” Gabriel found himself saying. He should not be telling Peter this; it was dangerous to remind him of a time when they’d been enemies. Still, Gabriel continued. “Picture a knife. It helps to use your hands to focus it. Point a finger or something. Then picture cutting with the knife.”

 

Peter raised a finger, a frown of concentration on his face, and made a slashing motion through the air. Suddenly, Gabriel gasped in pain as a gash drew itself in his arm. He clapped a hand over the bleeding cut while Peter gave a startled grunt. “Yeah, like that,” Gabriel said through clenched teeth.

 

“Sorry,” Peter said, and Gabriel was surprised to hear that he meant it.

 

“It’s okay,” said Gabriel, although it wasn’t, really. He applied pressure to the new cut on his arm, but he could still feel blood dripping sluggishly down his neck from where Peter had cracked his skull against the wall. If this kept up, Peter would be the death of him.

 

“How did you figure out how to use them all?” Peter asked. He sounded almost wistful.

 

“It’s part of what I do, my original power,” Gabriel explained. “Knowing how things work.”

 

“So shouldn’t I be able to use that one too?”

 

Sylar furrowed his brow in thought. “Should. I don’t know, Peter. The way you access your powers, it’s so different, centered in your emotions. I practice the abilities I have, hone them.” The contemplation on Peter’s face encouraged him to continue. “I can tell you what I know. It might be useful… If there’s any power we share that you’d like to have more control over.”

 

“Ted’s power?”

 

Sylar wondered if Peter was reading his mind. “Why not? You know you can use that one to heat up a frozen burrito?”

 

That drew a weak smile from Peter. “Yeah?”

 

“Yeah.” Gabriel pulled away gently. “I’d better get back to sleep,” he said. “Like I said, I’d be happy to give you whatever help I can.” He took a few steps toward the door, stopped, and turned back. “Only if you think it will help you.” Another step, then pause. “Just let me know.” Then he fled.  
******************

 

Alicia laid a photograph on the table for Bennet to examine. “That’s Hiro Nakamura,” she said tightly, and began tapping her pen on the table. Bennet wanted to wince at the sound, but he contained himself, instead leaning over the table to examine the photo. Though blurry, the shot showed Hiro just outside some sort of office building.

 

“Yes, I can see that,” Bennet said.

 

Alicia laid down another photo. “And that right there is Robert Bishop.” In this photo Hiro was shaking hands with an older man. Bob. “You know who he is?” Alicia asked.

 

“Yes, I know.” Bennet’s jaw clenched so tightly he was in danger of breaking a tooth. “How did you get those pictures?”

 

“Satellite surveillance. By the time we got there, they were gone.” She leaned back in her chair, regarding Bennet with what seemed to be polite interest. Her pen-tapping continued at the same steady pace. “Hiro Nakamura is public enemy number one, and the Department of Homeland Security— _Security_ —doesn’t have a fast enough response time to catch him.”

 

“Perhaps if you’d shared these pictures with me a little sooner, I might have been able to help,” Bennet said. He regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. Letting Alicia see his frustration would gain him nothing, and might in fact be dangerous. “My people have been working around the clock,” he continued smoothly. “There are a lot of leads to sort through.

 

“If Hiro is talking to this man,” she stabbed her finger at the picture of Bob, “Then he must be planning something new. And if we still had Molly Walker, we would know where.”

 

“We know who has Molly Walker,” Bennet said. And if Alicia hadn’t let Sylar get away, they could ask him where Candice was keeping her. But as much as Bennet wanted to, this was hardly the time to remind Alicia of her slip-up.

 

“Do you?” Alicia asked, although it was patently unnecessary. Even if Bennet hadn’t been furnishing Alicia with daily reports, he was certain that members of his staff reported his every move to her. “Then why don’t we have her back?”

 

“We will,” Bennet said. “Soon.” Without waiting for a dismissal, he left. Bennet was faintly surprised that he was able to make it out of Alicia’s office considering the red haze obscuring his vision, but he made it all the way out of the Homeland Security building without screaming at anyone. As soon as he cleared the last security checkpoint, he pulled out his cell phone and hit the third speed-dial number.

 

The Haitian didn’t say anything when he picked up. “Meet me at the facility,” Bennet said. “We need to talk to Hawkins again.”

 

Bennet’s driver had learned to read his boss’s moods, and wisely avoided eye contact and small talk all the way to the detention facility in Alexandria. Bennet should have been planning how he was going to get through to Hawkins, but his thoughts kept drifting back to Alicia Madden. He couldn’t afford to antagonize her anymore, not with the way things were going in the Department. She still knew about Claire, after all, and that would be the first card she’d play if she thought Bennet was getting out of line. “Faster,” Bennet snapped to the driver. The driver pushed down the gas pedal without argument.

 

The Haitian met Bennet at the front desk of the detention facility and led him to an interrogation room. Inside, D.L. Hawkins was seated at the table with his hands cuffed in front of him. Bennet hoped D.L. was in a chatty mood; he did not have time to beat around the bush today.

 

“You know a young woman named Candice Wilmer?” he asked as he closed the door behind him and the Haitian.

 

“What, no small talk?” D.L. asked, leaning back in his chair. “You leave me alone in my cell for three weeks, you think I’ll get bored enough to talk to you?”

 

“Do you know who Candice is or not?” Bennet shouted. D.L. looked from Bennet to the Haitian and back again. He seemed surprised that Bennet had lost his cool, but Noah was beyond caring.

 

“I know about her, yeah,” D.L. said cautiously.

 

“Let me fill you in,” Bennet said. “While your buddy Hiro was off assassinating the President, Candice borrowed his face to kidnap your son and another young woman I think you know. Molly Walker.”

 

D.L. blinked in confusion: not the reaction Bennet was expecting. “You’re saying the President’s dead?”

 

“Your buddies did their planning well. Killed the President and the Vice President. Last week. Which makes our friend Nathan Petrelli the new leader of the free world.”

 

“Borrowed Hiro’s face?” D.L. said slowly. “So you mean Micah and Molly got broken out at the same time as the President was getting assassinated?”

 

“That’s right.”

 

D.L. began to laugh. “Hiro didn’t kill the President.”

 

Bennet very much wanted to hit D.L., but he didn’t think it would accomplish what he wanted right now. Maybe later. “There’s no need to defend him. I thought you might be more worried about who took your son.”

 

“That’s what I’m saying,” D.L. said, reining in his laughter. “Hiro took my son. We’ve been planning to get him out for months.”

 

“I don’t believe you,” Bennet said, but his confidence was pricked by a tiny shred of doubt. “You’ve been planning to assassinate the President for months.”

 

“Let me guess what happened when they took Micah,” D.L. said, leaning forward on the table. “There was a power surge that took out surveillance at the detention facility. Small groups of ‘terrorists’ took out guards with homemade gas bombs. They escaped in vans and SUVs. Sound familiar?”

 

More than familiar. That was exactly how Micah and Molly had been rescued. “You helped plan the raid?” Bennet asked.

 

“Yes. With Hiro.”

 

“So it was really Hiro who attacked that facility,” Bennet said, as if the words were being pulled out of him.

 

“Yeah it was,” said D.L. “Which means your girl Candice is the one assassinating world leaders.”

 

“I thought—.” Bennet stopped himself quickly. It was bad enough that he’d been wrong; there was no need to expound on his failings in front of D.L.

 

“But you know, I did hear about a plan to kill the President,” D.L. said, rubbing his chin in mock-deliberation.

 

“From who?” Bennet ground out.

 

D.L. shook his head.

 

Bennet leaned forward on the table, keeping his voice quiet and controlled. “You’re a family man. You care about your son. You spent years trying to find him, trying to get him back. I respect that. I understand the importance of family. So when you don’t want to tell me what you know, I start to think it might have something to do with your wife.”

 

“What if it did?”

 

“Think about this, Mister Hawkins: an evolved human terrorist just assassinated the President of the United States. What do you suppose public opinion on evolved humans is right about now? What do you think is happening to slaves? Or to any undocumented specials we catch?”

 

“I get it. That’s not my fault.”

 

“Of course not. But if we catch the people responsible for this, it’s going to make life a lot easier for everyone else. Right now, that,” Bennet pointed at the tattoo on D.L.’s wrist, “Is like wearing a big target. I can’t even imagine what would happen if a fugitive with abilities got caught. Someone like Micah.”

 

D.L. narrowed his eyes, and now he looked genuinely affronted. “What do you want?”

 

“Tell me what you know about Niki’s plan.”

 

“It’s not Niki,” D.L. muttered.

 

“What?”

 

“It’s Jessica.”

 

“Uh huh,” said Bennet. “An alternate personality.”

 

“That’s right,” D.L. said. He sounded half-annoyed, half-impressed. “Jessica’s bad news, but that’s all I can tell you.”

 

“Listen,” Bennet said patiently. “I need to know everything she told you. I’d rather you tell us yourself. But if you want to be stubborn.” He nodded at the Haitian, who obligingly fixed D.L. with an unfriendly glare. “My friend can take the memory from you.”

 

D.L.’s eyes widened a little, and Bennet thought he’d probably heard stories about what the Haitian could do. That was useful. It meant Bennet had less convincing to do.

 

“And as long as he’s taking memories, he might remove a few others. You wouldn’t want to lose the past year, would you?” Bennet asked. The Haitian took a step toward the table, and D.L.’s eyes darted to him before coming back to Bennet. “Or other memories. The day your son was born, maybe? The last time you saw him?”

 

“I would have helped you,” D.L. spat out. “I don’t want Jessica to succeed any more than you do.”

 

“All right then.” Bennet sat at the table across from D.L. and waved the Haitian away. “We’ll all be reasonable. Tell us about the plan.”

 

“If I tell you what I know,” D.L. said sullenly. “I want something in return.”

 

“What’s that?” Bennet asked. He breathed an internal sigh of relief. They’d made it to the bargaining stage. From here it should be easy to get everything they needed.

 

“Let me come with you when this goes down,” D.L. said.

 

Bennet almost laughed. “Absolutely not.”

 

“Why not?” D.L. asked. “I’m no threat to you—my abilities are gone. At the very least, you might be able to use me for bait.”

 

“How’s that?”

 

“If Jessica thinks I’m going to mess up her plan, she won’t hesitate to kill me,” D.L. said. Then, under his breath, “I think she might be looking forward to it.”

 

Bennet stole a glance at the Haitian, and received a thoughtful nod. “Start talking first,” Bennet said, “And I’ll think about it.”  
**********************

 

Nathan toyed with the phone on his desk. He knew it was a secure line; he could call the Kremlin, if he wanted to. Instead, he’d had one of his many assistants—not Claire, whom he was avoiding— show him how to call out. He picked up the phone, set it down, and picked it up again. While he toyed with the receiver, he stole a look at the sealed letter lying in the middle of the blotter, and ran his fingers over the name on the envelope. Nathan dialed the phone.

 

It rang twice before it was picked up. “Speak,” said a familiar voice.

 

“Hello Hiro.”

 

There was a momentary pause. “Who is this?”

 

“Nathan Petrelli.”

 

“You’re a crazy man,” Hiro said.

 

“Probably so,” said Nathan. “I need to talk to you.”

 

“How did you get this number?”

 

“I got Mohinder’s cell phone records. This was the unaccounted for number,” Nathan said. “We need to talk in person.”

 

“I think that is not a good idea,” Hiro said slowly.

 

“Come to my office. I’m alone.” Nathan hung up the phone and waited.

 

He didn’t bother to fill the time with busywork, although there were piles of it on the desk: papers to sign, orders to issue. The past two weeks had left him feeling more than tired; he felt wrecked. That was saying a lot coming from a man who’d survived ringside seats to a nuclear explosion. Nathan was a confident man, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of impending doom that had been growing recently. Homeland Security’s new crackdown had resulted in lots of arrests, but they hadn’t netted Sylar or Suresh… or Peter. If something didn’t give soon, the President would be expected to do something drastic.

 

Between blinks, Hiro appeared in front of the desk. He was dressed for the outdoors in a woolen hat, scarf, and a long coat, but he had his sword slung over his back.

 

Nathan raised an eyebrow. “You’re hiding out in Siberia, now?”

 

“This is ridiculous,” Hiro said. He pulled off his hat, leaving his hair sticking up haphazardly. “Do you have any idea how dangerous this is?”

 

Nathan just raised an eyebrow. “If you wanted to kill me, you’d kill me. But I don’t think you’re going to.”

 

“Of course I am not going to,” Hiro snapped. “You’re not worried that someone might see me here?”

 

“That’s why I didn’t bring you in through the front door,” Nathan said patiently. “But I think we should talk.”

 

“Nathan,” Hiro began earnestly. “If you think I—.”

 

“I know you didn’t murder the President,” Nathan said.

 

Hiro stopped in mid-speech. “Oh. You do?”

 

“I’ve seen the tape.”

 

“And?” Hiro asked.

 

“I don’t know much, but I’ve seen you handle that sword, and you handle it better than that,” Nathan said.

 

Hiro managed a modest smile. “Why would I want to kill the President anyway?”

 

“I can think of lots of reasons,” Nathan said bitterly. He could probably name the top ten reasons he deserved to die without pausing for breath.

 

Hiro frowned in confusion. “If you know I didn’t do it, why did you call me?”

 

Nathan stood and came around his desk to stand by Hiro. “I want to know who did it.”

 

“You don’t know?”

 

“No,” Nathan said, his irritation growing.

 

“ _I_ don’t know,” Hiro said, spreading his arms helplessly.

 

“Hiro, work with me here,” Nathan said, throwing his arm around Hiro’s shoulder. “Do you have any enemies?”

 

“Maybe?” Hiro shrugged.

 

“Anyone who would want to ruin your reputation?” Nathan pressed.

 

“Hm…” Hiro’s face, scrunched up in concentration, was almost funny.

 

“Come on, Hiro,” Nathan said. “I know you. There’s got to be someone in your past that you really pissed off.”

 

“There’s Niki,” Hiro said thoughtfully.

 

“Niki Sanders?”

 

“Yes. We used to work together, but there was a disagreement,” Hiro said.

 

“A disagreement?” That couldn’t be good.

 

“We had different ideas of what it meant to be a hero,” said Hiro.

 

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” said Nathan. “Niki couldn’t have done this on her own. So who else is there?”

 

“I don’t know,” Hiro said. “I don’t have many enemies.”

 

Nathan sighed. Not as much information as he’d hoped for, but at least it was something. “What about the whole someone-having-your-face thing?” he asked. “Any ideas about that?”

 

“I don’t know,” Hiro said again.

 

“This is important, Hiro. If there’s a man out there who can look like anyone…” Nathan considered the danger of not knowing if an imposter was pretending to be Ginsberg, or Heidi. “That would be bad. Do you think Sylar could have acquired another power?”

 

“It wasn’t Sylar,” Hiro said quickly.

 

Nathan raised an eyebrow, and then decided he was better off not knowing any more about the subject. “You have no leads at all?”

 

Hiro shook his head sadly. “No.”

 

“Damn.”

 

There was a sudden burst of muffled laughter from the outside office, and Hiro whirled around, pulling his sword half out of its sheath before he realized no one was coming in. “It’s okay, Hiro,” Nathan said. “No one disturbs the President without warning. Well, almost no one.”

 

“I should go. It’s very dangerous for me to be here.” Hiro slipped his sword back into its sheath.

 

“One more thing,” Nathan said quickly. Hiro looked at him expectantly, and Nathan swallowed his pride. He might not get another chance. “Peter’s with you, isn’t he?”

 

“Why would he be?” Hiro said innocently.

 

“I’m not stupid, Hiro. I know you helped me find him.”

 

Hiro blushed furiously. “What if I did know where he was?”

 

Before he could lose his nerve, Nathan grabbed the sealed envelope from his desk. “I have a letter for him.”

 

“I’m not a currier service,” Hiro grumbled.

 

“Please just give this to him,” Nathan said. He took a step toward Hiro, and realized he was clutching the letter too tight, crumpling it. “I need him to have it.”

 

Hiro nodded once, shortly.

 

Nathan handed him the letter. “Thank you,” he said. Then Hiro was gone.

 

Nathan let out a shaky breath. If he thought too much about what he’d just done, he’d probably start to regret it, so he quickly flipped the switch on his phone to let his assistants know he was ready to for business again.

 

“Mister President,” Claire’s voice came through the intercom almost immediately. “Your speech writer is here. He has some things he’d like you to go over before you address the nation tomorrow.”  
**************

 

Peter flew through the forest, lower than he should, probably, but he was dodging trees with a fair amount of success. The snow, fresh just this morning, revealed no tracks, and Peter was starting to think he might be looking in the wrong place. Then, ahead through the foliage, he spotted his quarry. Gabriel was running, vaulting fallen trees and hurtling through the thick underbrush with supernatural speed. Peter didn’t want to set the trees on fire, so he decided to go hand to hand. He alighted in front of Gabriel, slamming into the ground so hard that dead leaves and powdery snow swirled and eddied in the rush of his landing.

 

Gabriel pulled up quickly, swore, and threw a blast of icy cold at Peter. Peter met it with fire, feeling the ice melt and evaporate in the air in front of him. He smiled to himself, pleasantly pleased that he’d pulled off that defense. On Saturday he’d spent two hours as an icicle after Gabriel caught him with a full blast of ice.

 

Taking advantage of Peter’s momentary distraction, Gabriel made a quick slashing motion, and Peter reeled back as cuts opened on his chest, deep slashes as if from the claws of a monster. He wasted a moment watching his skin knit back together, and when he looked back up, Gabriel was running again. Peter flew after him.

 

These hound-and-hare sessions had become the highlight of Peter’s day. It wasn’t like Claude’s tough love. Gabriel saw into the heart of a thing, or a person, and knew how to fix what was wrong. So far, he’d been able to find ways to demonstrate or explain concepts that Peter had never mastered on his own.

 

Scanning the ground below him for clues to where Gabriel had gone, Peter felt the bullet bite into his thigh before he heard the shot. Grunting in pain, he wheeled and took cover behind a tree. Normally, Gabriel hated guns, but he’d begun using them at Alai’s insistence. “You think Homeland Security won’t shoot at you?” Alai had said to Peter. “You need to learn how to dodge bullets or deal with them.” To Gabriel, he’d said, “And you need to learn to be a better shot if that Haitian fellow turns up again.”

 

Peter focused his telekinesis, so much more fine-tuned these days, to extract the bullet, and then closed his eyes to listen.

 

 _I can hear you breathing, Peter._ Gabriel’s thought was concentrated, compact, and meant for Peter to overhear. Peter smiled in anticipation. He’d been practicing one trick Gabriel didn’t know about. “Take your best shot,” he yelled, and broke from behind the tree, locking his eyes on Gabriel’s location.

 

Gabriel stepped out from behind his own tree, taking aim at Peter as he moved. Concentrating fiercely, Peter put his hand out and _pulled_. Then the gun was in his hand, heavy and warm from being fired. Peter didn’t know where the ability to call objects had come from, only that he’d been able to use it since his stay at the Westchester estate, since Mohinder’s injections had first restored his abilities. It was the first power he’d noticed coming back, and it was one of the last he’d managed to find a use for.

 

Now empty-handed, Gabriel stared at Peter for a moment in fascination. “Where did you—?” he began, but stopped when Peter tossed the gun aside in favor of a different weapon. Peter easily lifted a fallen log from the ground, held it like a baseball bat, and charged.

 

Caught off guard, Gabriel stumbled back a step, and Peter caught him in the chest, sending him flying back a dozen paces. He landed with a painful crunch, and Peter froze. He knew Gabriel wasn’t indestructible, but so far he’d walked away from everything Peter had thrown at him during these sessions. If he’d really hurt Gabriel this time… “Gabe?” Peter took a tentative step forward, but stopped when he saw Gabriel stir.

 

“Okay, now I’m mad,” Gabriel called, spitting out a mouthful of dirty snow. He got to one knee and raised his hands, and then sticks, dead leaves, rocks, every kind of loose debris from the forest floor was flying, creating a funnel cloud around him. “Come on, Peter!” he shouted, the teasing note in his voice making Peter smile. “Come and get me.”

 

Peter puzzled for a moment over how to proceed. Maybe if he created a wall of fire, he could smoke Gabriel out.

 

“Peter! Gabriel!” A sing-songy voice echoed through the trees. “Where are you?” It was Hiro.

 

“Over here!” Peter called, waving a hand. Gabriel dropped his telekinetic funnel cloud and stood up, brushing snow off his jacket.

 

“You guys done playing around?” Hiro, bundled up so that only his nose and eyes peeked out, was approaching through the trees. “Molly and Matt are making lunch,” he told Peter. “I think it is lasagna. At least that’s what they said. It looks a little like a hamster exploded. Where is Gabriel?”

 

“He’s right there,” Peter said, pointing. Gabriel was standing in plain sight, not twenty feet away.

 

“Sorry,” said Gabriel, and he waved to Hiro.

 

Hiro smiled. “It’s funny to see you do that.”

 

Peter furrowed his brow in confusion. “Do what?”

 

“The invisible thing,” said Hiro with a vague wave of his hand to illustrate.

 

“You can be invisible?” Peter asked quietly, looking at Gabriel. Suddenly the winter wind cut right through his jacket.

 

Gabriel nodded. “Sure.” Then he looked thoughtful. “Hey, didn’t you—?”

 

But Peter had started toward him, moving lightning fast as Gabriel had before when he was running, and he had his hand around Gabriel’s throat before he could speak the rest of the sentence. “Where did you get it?” he asked.

 

Behind him, Hiro spoke with alarm. “Okay, stop being invisible. What’s going on?”

 

“Who did you kill for that power?” Peter asked. He was holding Gabriel now with one hand, just off the floor of the forest, employing Niki’s strength, and he shook Gabriel by the throat as he spoke.

 

“Peter?” Hiro called. “What are you doing?”

 

Gabriel, clawing at Peter’s hand around his neck, couldn’t answer, but Peter could hear his panicked thoughts racing in circles: _Oh God, I didn’t know, I forgot you had it first. I’m sorry. You knew him. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry._

 

Disgusted, he threw Gabriel to the ground and pounced on him, one knee pressing into his belly, and his hand again around Gabriel's throat. “What did you do?” he growled.

 

Instead of hearing thoughts as words, he saw the memories from the inside, flashing in quick sequence, fast as the speed of thought, burning themselves into his brain. He saw them as if they were his own, as if he were experiencing the moment inside Sylar’s twisted memories:

 

_He was holding his hand in front of him, pinning a young woman to the wall with an invisible force, his finger pointed at her head, smiling with anticipatory delight. Then came the sound of a gun safety, and he was turning, seeing an empty room, but stopping the bullet in mid-air as it approached. He let the girl fall and turned to where the sound had come from. He brought his hand up, and with it came shards of shattered glass from the floor of the wrecked room. The little flock of shards hovered for a moment, and then struck. There was a cry of pain, and a bearded man materialized, staring down in disbelief at a pointed glass shard sticking out of his belly. In three quick steps, he was to the man, pinning him to the wall, raising a finger to slice open his head._

__

 

_He was sitting on the steps of an alter in a dark church looking up at the crucifix. A few feet away lay the body of a priest, the top of his head torn open, his eyes staring up in blank terror, his blood soaking into the plush red carpet. There was a terrible crash as the doors at the end of the church flew open and police swarmed in, but they didn’t see him, so he didn’t need to move. Invisibility was a wonderful trick._

__

 

_He was painting. The brush flew in his hand as he slapped paint onto the canvas almost savagely. He kept his eyes closed; he didn’t want to see what he was painting, because he knew it would be the same as it always was. He dropped the brush and made a slashing gesture at the canvas, slicing it in half._

__

 

_He was washing blood off, scrubbing his hands until they bled, scrubbing accompanied by frantic sobbing. The water was hot, and the metallic smell of blood was everywhere. He could taste it in his mouth. He kept scrubbing._

__

 

_He was standing in a graveyard, watching Hiro and Ando stare at him suspiciously. He took a slow step forward and placed a hand on his mother’s gravestone._

__

 

_He was crouched in a small wooden room filled with dusty sunlight, staring at his slave tattoo and breathing in the sweet smell of hay._

__

 

_He was grabbing for Mohinder’s hand, grabbing blindly in the dark, calling for Mohinder._

__

 

_He was watching Peter have a nightmare, calling “wake up” again and again._

__

 

_He was running through the forest, heart pounding in his chest._

__

 

_He couldn’t breathe._

 

Peter pulled his hand away from Gabriel’s throat, sitting back onto the snow, clutching at his head.

 

“What the hell was that?” he demanded.

 

Gabriel, coughing, clutching his throat, only shook his head in answer.

 

Hiro ran toward them, now that they were visible. “What happened?” he asked anxiously.

 

“Ask him.” Peter jerked his chin angrily toward Gabriel.

 

“Gabriel, are you okay?” Hiro asked.

 

“I’m fine,” Gabriel said, recovering his breath at last. “I’m sorry, Peter.”

 

“I saw…” Peter didn’t have words for what that was. “I saw it happen. I saw you kill Claude.”

 

“Memories,” Gabriel said softly. “It’s another power I acquired before… I’m sorry for what I did.”

 

“Yeah,” said Peter. Seeing Claude’s disbelief and horror as Sylar closed in on him, Peter tried to hold on to his anger, but Gabriel’s grief, his guilt and his contrition were fresher in Peter’s mind, the deep emotions of the memory burning, simmering like live coals. “You are sorry, aren’t you.” It wasn’t a question.

 

“I am,” said Gabriel.

 

“Did I hurt you?” Peter muttered. He held out a hand to help Gabriel up.

 

“It’s okay.” Gabriel took Peter’s hand, lurching to his feet unsteadily. “I understand,” he said, avoiding Peter’s eyes.

 

Hiro had wisely been holding back during this exchange. Now he came forward to take Gabriel gently by the arm. “Let’s get back to the house, okay? Come on.” He produced a folded envelope from the pocket of his coat and handed it to Peter. “This is for you,” he said. “I will take Gabriel back.”

 

Peter watched them until they were out of sight through the trees, and tried to clear his mind of what he’d just seen. He couldn’t. Sylar’s memories were burned into him, at least for now. He tried not to see Claude’s face, the pain and fear of it, tried not to hear Gabriel's panicked sobs as he tried to scrub blood from his hands.

 

Instead, he looked at the envelope Hiro had given him. He turned it over in his hand. No address, no postmark, just “Peter” penned in neat, precise strokes across the front. Peter’s heart began to speed up as he recognized the writing.

 

He ripped open the envelope and pulled out only a small square of paper with more of the same hand. It was from Nathan.

 

The note read, “Come see me. Please. I need you.”  


* * *


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last moments of calm before the storm.

Nathan had no idea when Peter would come. He prayed that Peter would answer the letter, because he couldn’t bear to think that he’d screwed up badly enough that Peter wouldn’t come. Aide after aide had come in asking him if he needed anything, so many concerned subordinates that he feared Peter wouldn’t be able to find a place to stand if he did show up. After Claire poked her head in for the dozenth time, Nathan sent his whole staff home. Now, hours after sunset, he was finally alone, or as alone as the President ever was. The two Secret Service agents outside the office weren’t likely to disturb him unless they heard gunshots. Nathan hoped there wouldn’t be gunshots.

 

The work on his desk was more than enough to keep him busy, to pass the time that crept by with unbearable slowness. Nathan rubbed his eyes tiredly, and when he opened them, Peter was there. There had been no sound, no flash of light to announce his presence. He simply stood in the middle of the Oval Office, regarding Nathan warily.

 

“Peter.” He stood up.

 

“Hi,” Peter said. “Got your note.”

 

“Yeah.” Nathan was too busy taking in the sight of Peter to formulate anything. Even bundled in a long wool coat, he looked so much healthier than he had before. His hair had had time to grow out past military shortness into more of a tussled mess. But best of all, his eyes held none of the unreasoning fear that had previously marred his beauty. He was alright. He wasn’t dead, he wasn’t in a Homeland Security cell somewhere. Even if Peter left again right now, the note wouldn’t be a total waste. Peter was safe.

 

When Nathan said nothing more, Peter began to prowl the room. “What is this, a trap?”

 

Nathan opened his mouth to snap back that that was a ridiculous idea, but his anger disappeared immediately, wiped away by a stab of regret so strong he was surprised there was no physical pain. Peter wasn’t out of line to suspect a trap. Hadn’t Nathan held him against his will? Hadn’t Nathan been trying to recapture him by any means necessary? Peter had the right to be suspicious. “No trap,” Nathan said.

 

Some of Nathan’s thought process must have shown on his face, because Peter softened a trifle, drifting to a stop beside the desk. “Then what do you want?”

 

He wanted so much, it was hard to boil it down to just one thing. “I wanted to see you before…”

 

“Before?”

 

“Before I decide what to do.” Peter frowned at that, so Nathan rushed on. “You and Hiro have your powers back?”

 

“Thanks to Mohinder.”

 

“I figured.” They stared at each other in silence for another moment until Nathan had to look away. “Let’s go where we can talk. Up to the residence?”

 

“Sure.” Peter winked out of visibility.

 

Before Nathan could stop himself, he reached forward, blundering into Peter, who showed himself again.

 

“What?”

 

“I… I wanted to make sure you were still there.”

 

“I’m not leaving.”

 

“Okay. Let’s go.”

 

The secret service escort never saw Peter. They left Nathan at the top of the stairs after making a brief sweep through the rest of the darkened residence. Nathan watched them go before heading down the hall in the opposite direction from the bedroom he shared with Heidi, turning left and holding open the door to that bedroom until Peter shimmered into visibility again.

 

“I take it this isn’t your room,” Peter said, shrugging off his coat and flinging it over a chair.

 

“Master bedroom’s on the other side of the building,” Nathan said, clicking on one of the bedside lamps. “This is the Lincoln Bedroom.”

 

“Wow,” Peter sounded duly impressed. “You bring all your dates here?”

 

Nathan’s laugh came out like a wheeze. Peter gave him his patented lopsided smirk, and Nathan felt his heart break a little. “You look good,” he said.

 

And it was true. It had been less than a month since Peter had left Westchester, but he looked nothing like the broken soul who’d destroyed his guest bedroom, who’d cowered behind the bed at a motel room in Ohio, who’d tried to strangle Nathan at the slave auction in south Chicago.

 

“I missed you,” said Peter.

 

This was his cue, Nathan knew. He took a deep breath. “I need to tell you something.” Peter crossed his arms over his chest and stood still, expectant. “It was my fault, all of it. My fault you got taken, that I couldn’t find you. That when I found you, I couldn’t give you what you needed. I’m sorry.”

 

Peter held up a hand to stop him. “I was talking to Sylar today.”

 

Nathan frowned, worried that Peter hadn’t actually heard his apology. “Peter, I’m trying to say—.”

 

He went on as if Nathan hadn’t spoken. “Sylar—well, it’s Gabriel now—we had a nice little chat.”

 

“Do I want to hear this story?” He tried to sound annoyed, but knew despair was showing through the chinks in his armor.

 

“He’s responsible for a lot of bad things, Nathan.”

 

Nathan thought he knew where this was going. “And so am I,” he said dully. If Peter considered him to be in the same category as Sylar, he didn’t deserve forgiveness.

 

“Maybe. But today I forgave him. I forgave Sylar.”

 

Nathan frowned. “Then you’re naive.”

 

“Probably. But Sylar’s sorry for what he did. He deserves forgiveness.”

 

“Does he?” said Nathan, and he meant, _Do I?_

 

“Why did you get Hiro to give me that note?”

 

“I needed to see you.”

 

“Why?”

 

It didn’t seem appropriate to say the real reason, that he would break if he lost Peter for good, so he said nothing.

 

Peter drew closer. “Everything’s coming together, Nathan. I can feel it, and I think you can too. You want to know what side you’re on.”

 

“I know what side I’m on,” Nathan said wearily.

 

“Your own side?”

 

“Something like that.”

 

“No. You’re on my side.” Peter sounded so sure that Nathan almost believed him. “Remember when all this started?”

 

Nathan closed his eyes and saw Peter stepping off a roof, felt a sickening lurch as he recalled it. “Yes.”

 

“I needed to feel like I could save the world. That’s who I am.”

 

“I know, Peter.” The better son, no matter what anyone said. Peter was the better one, the stronger one.

 

“So that’s what I fixed.” Peter laid a hand on Nathan’s shoulder, ducking his head to make Nathan look him in the eye. “I needed to be whole, and I am, because I’m helping. And you are, too.”

 

Nathan couldn’t help a bitter laugh. “I’m helping? Peter, I’ve done nothing but make mistakes since I took office. Since I was elected to Congress, even. How am I going to help?”

 

“You will.” The way Peter said it sounded like a prophecy.

 

“You seem pretty sure.”

 

“I have some evidence. And I know you.”

 

Nathan wanted to believe that. He didn’t want Peter to be wrong about him. “Do you?” he asked softly.

 

“I know the heart of you.” Peter laid his forehead against Nathan’s. “I love you.”

 

He drew a deep breath, feeling the heat of Peter’s skin sink into him. “Peter—.”

 

His brother interrupted again. “Do you love me?”

 

“Yes.” Nathan wanted to say something else, something truer, but there was no other word. “Yes,” he said again.

 

“All right then.”

 

Peter’s kiss was light, not tentative, just gentle, and after a moment, Nathan parted his lips. Peter slipped his tongue in, not rough or controlling, not taunting or teasing, just exploring. Nathan tightened his grip on the back of Peter’s neck, trying to pull them closer together.

 

Suddenly, Peter pushed him, hard, and for a split-second Nathan was gripped with doubt—had he done something wrong? Then, as he stumbled, the back of his knees hit the side of the bed, and he landed atop the covers. In an instant, Peter was straddling him.

 

“This bed is enormous,” Peter muttered.

 

“Lincoln was tall,” Nathan said.

 

Peter laughed—laughed, a velvety jingle, and Nathan suddenly found himself laughing too, giddy with relief: Peter was here, Peter was whole. The broken creature he’d driven back to New York never laughed like that—never laughed at all, in fact. Peter, his Peter, was like this. Bright, and warm, and sweet. That thought made Nathan stretch his neck up to catch Peter’s mouth again, swallowing the rest of Peter’s laughter.

 

As they kissed, Peter tilted his hips forward, digging his erection into Nathan’s belly. “Missed you,” he whispered between kisses. “Missed you.” He unbuttoned Nathan’s shirt, and pulled at the tie until Nathan reached up to undo the knot. “Missed you.” Peter sat up to pull his sweater over his head, then returned his mouth to Nathan’s, rubbing the length of his body up and down, bare chests together, jeans scratchy against Nathan’s skin.

 

“Peter,” Nathan breathed. Peter kissed his protest away, and squirmed lower so that his own clothed erection bumped against Nathan’s.

 

“Missed you,” Peter whispered again, grinding into Nathan so he arched up, grabbing hold of Peter’s neck and panting.

 

Nathan tried again. “Peter—.” But Peter moved his head lower to capture Nathan’s nipple in his teeth, and the words he meant to say became a shuddering gasp.

 

Peter wrapped his arms around Nathan and sighed, resting his head on Nathan’s chest. “Is it strange that being with you makes me feel more like myself?”

 

“It’s not strange,” Nathan said. Peter wrapped around him felt like home, more like home than any building in the world. “I know who I am when you’re with me.”

 

Peter slid against Nathan, up to tuck his head under Nathan’s chin. “You know when I feel most like myself?”

 

“When?”

 

Peter’s cheek was pressed against his, his breath hot on Nathan’s ear. “When you’re inside me.”

 

Nathan made a noise that sounded like a moan. Peter rolled off of him, but was back so fast Nathan suspected some extraordinary element had helped to remove his jeans. There was no use in complaining, however, since Peter was already stripping Nathan from the waist down. Now, when Peter straddled him again, their cocks slid against each other, sending wonderful shivers of sensation up Nathan’s spine.

 

“We don’t have—,” Nathan began, but Peter shushed him. He grabbed Nathan’s wrist, brought his hand to his mouth, and sucked in two of Nathan’s fingers, running his tongue around and between them. Then he got to all fours, looming over Nathan, and watching him expectantly until Nathan reached between Peter’s spread legs and eased one of his wet fingers into him.

 

Peter’s face was so close, Nathan enjoyed watching the changes as he moved his finger, working it deeper, sliding it in and out. When he added the second finger, Peter closed his eyes. Scissoring his fingers caused Peter to bite his lip, and twisting them made him release a delicate little sigh.

 

Nathan hooked his fingers, searching for the spot that would make Peter squirm. Peter pushed himself back onto Nathan’s fingers, and then suddenly he bucked, eyes snapping open as Nathan found what he was looking for. Peter reached one arm back to grab Nathan’s wrist, holding it in place as he worked himself on it, and Nathan obligingly curved his fingers again, producing a delighted yelp. Peter’s other arm gave out, sending him tumbling forward onto Nathan, trembling.

 

“Need you. Now,” he gasped in Nathan’s ear. He pushed himself upright again, sliding back to plant a knee on either side of Nathan’s waist. Peter wrapped a hand around Nathan’s cock, pointing straight up at him, and began to lower himself, sliding down so desperately slowly that Nathan let go of Peter’s hips, fisting his hands in the covers to resist pulling him down faster. When Nathan was finally buried all the way, he chanced a look at Peter’s face: his eyes were closed, his mouth open as he gulped in air like a drowning man. It looked like relief, like Peter had been waiting for this moment, desperately needed this to happen, like putting out a fire.

 

“No,” Peter said, cracking open one eye. “Like starting a fire.”

 

Abilities. Right. Peter could read minds. And so many other things. Nathan reached up to run his hands down Peter’s body, down to where they were joined. Peter would always be special, so heart-breakingly special, and he was Nathan’s to take care of. “I missed you,” Nathan said.

 

Peter smiled, that beautiful, lop-sided smile, perfect and sincere. Then he began to move, lifting himself almost all the way off Nathan before sliding back down, twisting his hips wickedly. Nathan tried to keep focused on Peter’s face, on that open look of pleasure, but it was hard to concentrate with Peter riding him, warm and impossibly tight.

 

Watching him move, wet with sweat, head thrown back, panting out his pleasure, Nathan’s mind raced through all he needed to say, how much he’d missed this, missed Peter, how sorry he was, how he’d do better, but most of all, more than anything else, how much he loved Peter.

 

“Peter,” Nathan gasped.

 

Peter’s eyes came to his, held them as he quickened his pace. “I know,” Peter said.

 

He wrapped a fist around his cock and began to stroke, faster and faster as he continued to ride Nathan. Peter’s muscles clamped down as he got close, and then his rhythm faltered. With a sudden high-pitched exhalation, he slid all the way down onto Nathan’s cock, squirming there as his climax ripped through him. The sight of Peter gasping out his orgasm on top of him was enough to send Nathan over the edge, gasping his brother’s name, fingers digging into Peter’s hips as he came.  
********

 

After Nathan fell asleep, Peter sat up watching him. He was snoring softly, completely gone. Barefoot, Peter padded out into the hallway, wandering through a formal living room and out into a hallway. Listening carefully, he heard two slow heartbeats in a room to his right. That had to be Simon and Monty.

 

Making himself invisible, Peter crept to the room where his nephews were sleeping, covers tucked up to their chins in two twin beds. He hadn’t seen them in three years, and he barely recognized them now. On a whim, he thought of Celia, thought of seeing a special ability shine like an aura, and then a faint glow lit up the room: Simon a hazy gold, Monty a dull red. Peter smiled. Nathan’s sons were going to have destinies of their own.

 

Monty tossed in his sleep and let out a little whimper. Frowning, Peter reached out with his mind. He wasn’t sure if it was Parkman’s power or this new one, the one Sylar had stolen from the priest, or if he’d absorbed the boys’ powers already, but suddenly he saw Monty’s nightmare. He held it in his mind for a moment, considering it, and then broke contact.

 

He tiptoed back into the Lincoln Bedroom and pressed a kiss to his brother’s forehead. “I’ll come back to you, Nathan,” he whispered. “I promise.” Then he was gone.  
********

 

“I’ll see your dishwashing and raise you a town run,” said Ando boldly.

 

Micah whistled. “That’s pretty intense.” He studied the cards in his hand. “I fold.” He flicked his cards in irritation and turned to Matt.

 

Matt was staring suspiciously at Ando. “Are you cheating?” Ando asked.

 

“No,” Matt grumbled. It was a nightly ritual for someone to accuse Matt of cheating at cards. In truth, Matt played fair when it suited him, and cheated when it didn’t. He considered himself comfortable with morally grey when it came to poker. “I’ll call.” He slid two scraps of paper representing his chores toward the center of the table. “Gabriel?”

 

“Hm?” Gabriel jerked his attention back to the game. “I…” He looked to where Hiro and Mohinder were whispering in the corner. “I fold,” he said. He set his cards down on the table and nearly sprinted out of the room.

 

“You and me, Matthew,” Ando said. They both laid down their cards. Ando’s four of a kind beat Matt’s full house, and he gleefully raked in chore vouchers.

 

Out of curiosity, Matt grabbed Gabriel’s hand where he’d discarded it, stealing a look before shuffling it back into the deck. Gabriel had been holding a royal flush. Frowning in confusion, Matt glanced to the corner where Mohinder and Hiro were still engaged in hushed conversation, but he decided against eavesdropping. As Mohinder said goodnight to Hiro and retreated upstairs, Matt wondered what was going on between Mohinder and Gabriel before telling himself firmly to stay out of it. He’d embarrassed himself before by being too suspicious of Gabriel, and the man had more than earned the benefit of the doubt.

 

“One more game?” Matt asked as he shuffled.

 

“We need another player,” Ando pointed out with a nod at Gabriel’s empty chair.

 

“I’ll ask Hiro,” said Micah, sliding out of his chair.

 

“Great,” Ando said. He fixed Matt with a good-natured glare. “Then we can have two cheaters.”

 

Just then a bundled-up Peter burst through the front door, bringing in a gust of wind and a swirl of snow. Hiro turned, drawing his sword, before he saw who it was and broke out into a grin.

 

Ando jumped up, cursing. “Can’t you teleport through the door? Or phase or something?”

 

“Sorry,” Peter said with an apologetic smile, and Matt saw a trace of the confused young man Peter had been back when they first met. “Hiro, I have to talk to you. And not just you.” _He was right about Nathan. He was right about everything._

 

“Where’ve you been?” Matt asked.

 

“Out. Thinking.” _Are you reading me?_ Peter looked at him sharply, and then Matt felt the painful mental feedback he’d experienced before in Peter’s presence. They both flinched.

 

“Sorry,” Matt muttered. “I’ll try to stop.”

 

“’Sokay,” said Peter. “Hiro, I think I know something about the fight that’s coming.”

 

“Really?” Hiro looked like he very much wanted to say something else, just not in front of company. Matt forced himself not to try to listen in. He didn’t want to add to his new pounding headache.  
.

“Micah,” Ando said. “Can you go find your cohort?”

 

“You can’t kick me out of the room every time you want to have an adult conversation,” Micah protested. “I have a right to know what’s going on!”

 

“Yes you do,” Hiro said. “And so does Molly. So would you mind getting her and bringing her here?”

 

“Oh. Yeah, sure.” Somewhat sheepishly, Micah retreated upstairs in search of Molly.

 

“Is this about the painting?” Hiro asked as soon as Micah was gone.

 

“Yeah.” Peter pulled off his gloves and closed the distance between him and Hiro. “What else do you know about it?”

 

“What painting?” Matt asked. He didn’t like the feeling that he was being left out of something.

 

“Isn’t he in the painting?” Peter asked, inclining his head toward Matt.

 

“Yes,” said Hiro.

 

“What painting?” Matt asked again.

 

“You showed Peter the painting?” Ando asked, coming to stand next to his friend.

 

“Well, yes,” Hiro said.

 

“What painting!” Matt demanded, stepping forward into their circle.

 

The three paused, guiltily regarding Matt. “Mister Isaac painted pictures that showed the future,” Hiro said after a moment. “Like the bomb in New York. I have a painting of his that has not come true yet.”

 

“It is going to help us save the world,” Ando announced proudly.

 

Matt looked from Hiro to Ando to Peter and back. “I don’t get it.”

 

“You are in the painting,” Hiro said excitedly. “So is Peter Petrelli. And Ando. Others, too.”

 

“So that means…?” Matt asked

 

“You are going to help save the world!” Hiro concluded.

 

“Save the world from what?” Molly was standing on the stairs, Micah close behind her.

 

“I told you they were talking without us,” Micah grumbled.

 

“Do they really need to be here for this?” Matt asked. Molly glared at him incredulously.

 

“They’re in the painting,” Hiro said.

 

“What painting?” Micah asked.

 

“The painting that’s going to save the world,” Ando told him. “I’ll explain later.”

 

“But that’s what I’m saying.” Peter looked hopefully at Hiro. “Do you know what we’re supposed to be saving the world from?”

 

Everyone in the room turned their attention to Hiro, and Matt caught a string of nervous thoughts in Japanese. “Does it matter?” Hiro asked finally.

 

“You don’t know?” Matt asked in disbelief. “We’re on some big mission that you’ve come up with to follow this painting, and you don’t even know why?”

 

 _Calm down._ Peter shot the thought to Matt along with a glare. _Listen with your ears._ “I saw something,” Peter announced.

 

“Like a vision?” Ando asked.

 

“A dream?” Molly took the rest of the steps at a leap to come stand with the adults, and Micah followed.

 

Peter shrugged. “Something like that.” Matt caught the tail end of a thought— _when they all grow up_ —from Peter, but that was all.

 

“So what was it about?” Matt asked. His tone was casual, but he concentrated on listening to Peter. If he was careful, maybe he could pick up a stray thought or two and find out whatever it was Peter was holding back.

 

“It wasn’t real, what I saw, but I think it could be,” Peter began. “Things were a lot worse. Not just for us.”

 

“What do you mean worse?” Molly asked.

 

Peter shifted uncomfortably as he looked at Micah and Molly standing shoulder to shoulder with the adults. “What I saw was as different from the way things are now as things now are from the way things were five years ago.”

 

Matt concentrated, and suddenly he was hit by a barrage of images: soldiers marching down the streets of New York, two children huddling together in a dark basement, an open grave piled with dozens of bodies. He grabbed his head, wincing, and when he opened his eyes, everyone was staring at him. He must have said something out loud.

 

 _Happy now?_ Peter thought at him.

 

“What do you mean by apocalypse?” asked Hiro.

 

Matt looked uncertainly to Peter, who sighed. “It’s not like the bomb,” Peter said. “At least, I don’t think it is. I didn’t see a moment that changed everything, I just saw the effects.”

 

“So,” Micah said tentatively. “There might be a moment that changes the world, causes a bunch of bad stuff, but we don’t know what it is?”

 

“But there’s the painting,” Hiro ventured.

 

“You’re saying if the painting doesn’t happen, then this vision is going to come true,” Matt said.

 

“Maybe.” Hiro shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know everything.”

 

“But we’re supposed to stop something from happening?” Molly asked. “Or make something happen? According to this painting.”

 

“Maybe,” said Hiro. Matt gave an affronted snort. “I’m not lying! Mister Isaac was a painter, not a photographer!”

 

“So what can we do to be ready?” Matt asked. “If we don’t know where or when we’re supposed to do whatever it is we’re supposed to do, how can we possibly do it?”

 

One by one, the others turned to look at Hiro. No one spoke.  
********

 

Nathan got approximately four minutes a day to himself. Today, after waking to find himself naked and alone in the Lincoln Bedroom, he desperately needed the four minutes between breakfast and his first meeting to collect his thoughts. He sequestered himself in the Yellow Room, where no one would think to look for him, and settled down on the couch, preparing to brood.

 

After a moment, the silence of the room was broken by the creaking of a door. Nathan turned to see his youngest son standing tentatively in the doorway. He sighed. “Monty, what are you doing in here?”

 

“I needed to talk to you,” Monty began. “And you never have time to—.”

 

“No, I don’t have time,” Nathan interrupted. “Do you have any idea what I have to do as President?”

 

Just then Simon slipped into the room, a grin plastered on his face. “That should keep the nanny busy for a couple minutes,” he said to Monty. His grin faded when he saw the frown on his father’s face.

 

“Simon, did you help your brother with this?” Nathan asked, working to keep his voice calm and level.

 

Simon lifted his chin defiantly. “Yes. Don’t be mad until you hear him out.” Then he slipped back out the door. Nathan couldn’t decide whether to go after him or deal with Monty first.

 

“Dad.” Monty made the decision for him by pulling on the arm of his suit. “Something is happening to me, and I have the feeling that you’re the only one who’s going to understand.”

 

“What did you just say?” Dejà vu. The words echoed in Nathan’s head, bringing him back to the day in New York when Peter had said exactly the same thing.

 

“Something’s happening to me, Dad. Something weird. I mean, _weird_.” Monty said the word as if Nathan should understand something from it. “You know? Simon said I should talk to you.”

 

Nathan swore under his breath. He’d trusted Simon with the secret of his own abilities, knowing that someday his boys might develop abilities of their own. Simon was practical, mature. He could be trusted with this particular family secret. Monty was too young, too sensitive and full of ridiculous fancies for Nathan’s taste. He got that from his uncle. “I don’t know what your brother told you, Monty, but—.”

 

“I had a dream you could fly,” Monty said quickly. “I told Simon, and then he said it would be okay to talk to you.”

 

“Okay,” Nathan said through clenched teeth. “What exactly do you need to talk about?” It was just a coincidence that Monty had dreamed of him flying. Lots of people dreamed of flying, and the fact that he’d seen Nathan in his dream could be explained, too. Nathan was the President of the United States, for God’s sake. Of course Monty would think of him as some sort of hero. Nathan made a mental note to have a talk with Simon about secrets and jumping to conclusions.

 

“In my dream,” Monty was saying, “Uncle Peter is on a roof. He steps off, and he starts to fall, and you fly up and catch him.”

 

Nathan stared at his youngest son, into wide brown eyes that begged him to believe. There was no way Monty could have known about what happened in a New York alley more than four years ago. It was another coincidence. It had to be.

 

The shrill ringing of the telephone on the end table broke the moment. He knew his staff would track him down eventually, and now he wasn’t sorry for their tenacity. Nathan picked it up, grateful for an excuse to tear his eyes away from Monty. “Yes?”

 

“Mister President?” It was Ginsberg. “Your speech writer needs to go over a few—.”

 

“Of course,” said Nathan. “I’ll be down in five minutes.”

 

“But Mister President—.”

 

“Five minutes,” Nathan said, and set down the receiver.

 

Monty grabbed his arm again. “Dad, I have to tell you. In my other dream, they come here at night. They come and take me and Simon away, and they shoot Mom, and—.”

 

“Monty, it’s just a nightmare.” He tried to embrace his son, but Monty pulled away.

 

“It’s not! Dad, I need you to believe me. They take you away. There’s a woman, she has blond hair, and she—.”

 

“Monty, stop it.” Whatever Simon had done to distract the nanny must have been massive. Nathan was sure Monty’s shouting could be heard in the rose garden.

 

“I’m not making it up! I know it’s going to happen!”

 

“That’s ridiculous, Monty. You’re too old for this.” He went for the door. Maybe Monty would calm down once his audience was gone. “I have to go.”

 

“I dreamed Uncle Peter came to visit you,” Monty blurted out.

 

Nathan froze with his hand on the doorknob. “What?”

 

Monty shifted his feet guiltily. “He sat right there on the carpet.” He pointed to a spot in front of the fire. “And he was drawing a picture of you sleeping in that chair.” His face reddened, but he kept on determinedly. “And then he got on the couch with you—.”

 

“Stop,” Nathan said desperately. “Stop it. When did you dream this?”

 

“Last week,” said Monty. “Do you believe me?”

 

“Yes,” Nathan said, because it was the truth. He was out of excuses.

 

“Something bad is going to happen.”

 

Nathan walked back into the room and gathered his son is his arms. This time Monty clung to him with the single-minded desperation of a drowning man.

 

“This dream is going to come true,” Monty said, muffled into his father’s shoulder. “They’re going to come for us.”

 

“It’s okay, Monty,” said Nathan. “I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise.”  
********

 

“Ms. Madden, there’s a Robert Bishop here to see you.”

 

Alicia thought for a moment before pressing the intercom button on her desk. “What?”

 

“Robert Bishop. He says he has an appointment.”

 

Alicia pulled her Glock out of her desk drawer and set it on her lap. “Send him in.”

 

The door beeped, admitting a balding, soft-faced man just past his middle years. Alicia recognized his face from the photos in his file, and wondered, annoyed, why her staff had failed to do the same. “How did you get in here?”

 

“Well, Ms. Madden, I look amazingly harmless, and I have no criminal record. The rest pretty much takes care of itself.”

 

“I see.” It was disturbingly true. Part of the problem with keeping subordinates in line with fear was that they would listen to anyone who inspired equal or greater fear. She was surprised that Robert Bishop fit the bill. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

 

“I understand you’ve been looking for Hiro Nakamura,” Bob began. He took a seat in front of Alicia’s desk without waiting for an invitation.

 

“I’d say that’s obvious.”

 

“And that you think he’s going to be trying something again soon.”

 

Alicia sighed. She was in no mood for an evil mastermind monologue. “Mister Bishop, as much as I admire your resourcefulness in getting in to see me, I’m a busy woman, and you’re a known terrorist. You have ten seconds to make your point before I call security.

 

“An evolved human named Jessica Sanders is going to attack the White House tonight and kill the President.”

 

Alicia frowned. “I’m listening.”

 

“I know how it’s being done, and when, and I can help you use that information to your advantage.”

 

“Uh huh.” Alicia fingered the gun in her lap, frowning. “And now you’ve told me. So why do I need you?”

 

“There’s something you want more than the information to foil an assassination attempt,” Bob said with a placid smile. “I think our needs correspond. Petrelli. You don’t want him in charge.”

 

“He’s the President.”

 

“And you hated him when he was a Congressman.”

 

Madden inclined her head slightly.

 

“We have the same goal. You’d like Petrelli out of the way, and so would I. But you’ve got a problem. The country’s in a precarious state already.” Bob waved a hand at the world outside the office. “If you remove Petrelli, the government might fall apart.”

 

“America’s needs come first,” Alicia demurred. Bob had made an excellent point. Petrelli had represented an obstacle from the first, but even he was better than total chaos.

 

“What if there was a way to keep Petrelli as the face of the government, but make sure you control the policy?”

 

Alicia took her hand away from the gun. Now they were coming to the heart of the matter. If Bob really did have an intelligent suggestion to make, it was worth hearing him out. God knows she’d made deals with worse men than Bob. “Nathan Petrelli is many things, Bob, but he’s not weak,” she said coolly. “He won’t give in to blackmail, not for long at any rate.”

 

“I’m not talking about blackmail.” Bob seemed almost offended that she’d suggested something so crass, and Alicia couldn’t help but start to like the man. “I’m sure you see a lot of amazing abilities in your line of work,” he continued. “Have you ever come across a young woman named Candice Wilmer?”  
********

 

“Sir, is this your speech?” Claire was standing in the doorway, clutching a piece of paper like a weapon.

 

“Yes.” Nathan shook his head, resigned. “How did you get that?”

 

“The original was still in the copier.” She stepped into the office and closed the door behind her. “Has anyone else seen this yet?”

 

“I sent a copy to each of the senior staff. I expect Ginsberg to come storming in in about three minutes.”

 

Claire held up one of the pages and read, “Too long we have been slaves to our fear. It stops now. Those who deny freedom to others deserve it not for themselves, and, under a just God, they cannot long retain it.” She lowered the paper. “You wrote this?”

 

“That last part is an Abraham Lincoln quote, but yes, most of it I wrote.”

 

“This is amazing,” Claire said. “They’ll never let you say this on national television.”

 

“I’m the President, and I can fly. Who’s going to stop me?”

 

“Dad—.”

 

Ginsberg burst in from the hallway without knocking. “Mister President, I need to speak to you.” He glared at Claire until she retreated back to the secretaries’ office. “Did you write this?” he demanded, tossing a copy of the speech on the desk in front of Nathan.

 

“Yes Alan, I did.”

 

For a moment, Ginsberg just gaped. “You’re an abolitionist, now?” he asked at last, as if that was a completely absurd thing to become.

 

“Yeah, I guess I am.”

 

“Where’s the speech Ralph has been working on? It has everything we’ve discussed—new security measures, the terrorist crackdown—.”

 

“I changed my mind.”

 

“Sir, I’m going to have to strongly advise you to reconsider giving this speech. In the six years I worked with President Devlin, I never saw a political move this…” He searched for the word. “Suicidal! This is a difficult time for the nation. You weren’t even elected! You can’t go around doing whatever you want!”

 

“Hm,” said Nathan thoughtfully. Then he strolled out of the office.  
********

 

Claire was afraid her father wouldn’t pick up. He could be on a mission, or out of the country, or—.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Dad?”

 

“Claire? Now is not a good time.” She heard rustling on the other end of the phone, her father speaking to someone else. “What? I’m sorry, Mr. Sanders. I have to check this out. Take him the rest of the way.” More rustling. “Claire, is this important?”

 

“I just read this speech the President wrote.”

 

“What speech?” He was distracted, she could tell.

 

“For the national press conference? The one they’ve been planning for weeks? Big speech?”

 

“Honey, Nathan can say what he wants. I don’t care.”

 

“Dad, they’re not going to let him give this speech.”

 

“Why?”

 

“The things he says…” she trailed off. Her father had to understand how important this was. If someone like Nathan would really stand up for specials, then people like Claire wouldn’t have to be afraid, wouldn’t have to hide.

 

“What, Claire?” Bennet prompted.

 

“They’re going to kill him.”

 

There was silence for a moment on the other end of the line. Then, “They might not have to.”

 

Claire gripped the phone harder. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

“Don’t worry honey. This doesn’t concern you.”

 

“It does concern me! I’m here! I know about it! The President is trying to do the right thing, something to actually _help_ people like me, and people aren’t going to like it.”

 

“No, they’re not. So stay out of it, do you hear? I want you safe. In fact, get out of there now. Say you’re sick. You can’t be anywhere near the White House tonight.”

 

Run. Hide. That was always the solution, and this time it had Claire fuming. “Dad, if we let this happen, then what are we doing all this for?”

 

“We’re staying safe,” Bennet said in the calm and condescending tone that signaled a return to exasperatingly familiar ground.

 

“And we’re supposed to be playing the system from the inside. What happened to that?”

 

“Claire, now is not the time to—.”

 

“Then when is, Dad? You’re willing to let anyone else die as long as our family stays safe?”

 

There was silence.

 

“You are, aren’t you. You don’t care who gets hurt, at long as they leave us alone.”

 

“I do what I have to.” She recognized the strain in his voice, the clip that meant he was bracing himself to be stubborn.

 

“I can’t live with that, Dad! If you won’t help, I’ll do it on my own.”

 

“No, Claire—.” But there was only the hollow echo of a dial tone.  
********

 

“Heidi, there’s something I have to tell you.”

 

She closed the door to the sitting room and regarded her husband with complete calm. “You’re sending us away, aren’t you?”

 

“How did you know that?”

 

“Monty told me about his dreams, Nathan,” she said. “ _All_ his dreams.”

 

Nathan failed to repress a wince. “They’re just dreams.”

 

“Then why are you sending us away?”

 

“It’s only for a few days.”

 

“Nathan.” Heidi smoothed the lapel of his jacket, and Nathan braced himself for the worst. “Some of Monty’s dreams have been about his Uncle Peter.” She immediately held up her finger to forestall a barrage of denials. “You were a different man after Peter was taken. You lost something, but I’ve seen it come back in the past few weeks.”

 

“Heidi—.”

 

“Just be safe, Nathan.” She kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll see you in a few days.”  
********

 

It was just past sunset when Candice, disguised as Hiro, and Jessica pulled into the parking lot of a warehouse in Alexandria.

 

“Ready?” Jessica asked.

 

Candice pushed her illusory glasses up her illusory nose. “Ready.”

 

“Where’s the man in charge?” Jessica asked as they approached the group already assembled.

 

“I’m in charge!” Elle said indignantly. Jessica smirked, and Elle narrowed her eyes in irritation. “Daddy—I mean Bob left me in charge. We’re supposed to wait until he gets back.”

 

“You brought your friends,” Candice said. As promised, a dozen or so people stood clustered behind Elle, warily eyeing the newcomers.

 

“Yeah.” Elle smiled at them proudly. “Just wait,” she said, leaning in close to “Hiro,” her voice becoming a seductive purr. “I think you’ll like what they can do.”

 

“Can’t wait,” Jessica said, her voice dripping boredom.

 

Elle glanced at her watch. “Don’t have to,” she said with a delighted smile. “It’s almost time.”  
********

 

“So now I’m asking more of you than I have before,” Hiro said.

 

Dean chuckled. “This sounds familiar.”

 

“Shhh.” Alai punched Dean in the shoulder. “Let the man have his nerdiness.”

 

“Any questions?” Hiro asked, ignoring them.

 

Matt raised his hand. “How will we know when this is supposed to happen?”

 

“I’ll know.” Peter said, without waiting for Hiro to answer. All eyes in the room turned to him. “I will,” he said grimly.

 

Hiro nodded. “We’ll be ready.”  


* * *


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It all comes down to tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All hail [](http://redandglenda.livejournal.com/profile)[**redandglenda**](http://redandglenda.livejournal.com/) for her indispensable help on this entire project. Bonus points also go to [](http://jaune-chat.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://jaune-chat.livejournal.com/)**jaune_chat** this week, because she painted the word picture of Isaac’s painting.

Peter couldn’t see anything, which was unusual. He thought his eyes were open, but he didn’t know where he was. He felt a sudden sharp pain, muted as if it was happening to someone else, and then he realized he could hear.

 

“What do you want?”

 

Nathan. It was Nathan. He was in trouble. He was in pain.

 

“Get up.” The man’s voice was harsh, impersonal, and Peter didn’t recognize it.

 

The room was dark, but Peter saw a man holding Nathan on the floor, twisting an arm up behind his back. Nathan struggled, trying to break the man’s grip, and a second man took a step closer, kicking Nathan in the side. The men were wearing suits and earpieces, and Peter saw a flicker of recognition in Nathan’s eyes as he squinted up at them. “Why are you doing this?” Nathan gasped when he got his breath back.

 

“They told us what you’re planning,” said the first man, glaring at Nathan as if he were lower than dirt.

 

“What?” Peter saw Nathan struggle through that claim and come up blank. “Who?”

 

“The game’s up, Mister President. We know you’re one of _them_ ,” said the second man. “Take him.”

 

“No!” Peter screamed. He bolted up in bed, tearing his out way out of tangled sheets. “Nathan!”  
**************

 

An arm grabbed Hiro’s shoulder in the dark, and by the time the light came on, Hiro thought that Peter Petrelli was lucky to still have all his body parts. As it was, the Kensei sword rested delicately against Peter’s wrist, and Peter looked at it with one eyebrow raised in surprise.

 

“What is it?” Hiro asked, and lifted the sword’s razor sharp edge off Peter’s arm, leaving a line of split skin that healed as he watched.

 

Peter seemed not to have noticed. “It’s time,” he said.

 

Hiro looked at him blearily for a moment before the information penetrated. “Oh,” he said suddenly. “Let’s go!” He jumped out of bed, tangling his legs in the sheets and falling to the floor face first.

 

Meanwhile, Peter had taken off down the hallway, pounding on doors. Sleepy faces appeared, grumbling, but when Hiro called out into the corridor, “It’s time,” everyone sprang into action as they’d planned.

 

Hiro fumbled with his glasses, threw on clothes he’d tossed on the floor a few hours before, wrapped up in his coat, and carefully buckled his sword over his shoulder.

 

Ando poked his head in. “This is really it?” he asked. Hiro nodded gravely. “Put your shirt on right side out,” Ando said. “I don’t want to be seen with a frumpy hero.” Hiro grinned, grateful for Ando’s ability to cut through his nervousness, and Ando gave him the thumbs up.

 

After righting his clothes, Hiro followed Ando into the hallway. People were running back and forth, grabbing weapons and throwing on clothing, bundling up as they were used to doing for winter in the mountains: hats, coats, mittens, and scarves. In the midst of the jumble, Hiro saw Peter catch Molly by the arm.

 

“Molly! Molly!”

 

“What’s up?” she asked.

 

“I need you to help me find someone. My brother Nathan.” Peter was practically vibrating with impatience. “Can you find him?”

 

Molly nodded and closed her eyes. Peter closed his eyes too, and they stood together, an island of calm in the rush of preparations. Their eyes snapped open at the same moment. “The White House,” they said together.

 

Hiro caught Peter’s eye. “Don’t go alone. You’ll need all of us. We’ll get there the fast way.” Raising his voice, he called, “Everyone downstairs.”

 

Pounding down the creaky staircase came everyone who’d agreed to be a part of the fight: Gabriel, empty-handed and grim, Mohinder, gun bulging under his coat, Matt, who was handing off tazer guns to Molly and a grumbling Micah, Dean and Lara, each carrying a walkie talkie, Alai, who had a rifle slung over his back, a hand gun on his belt, and was tucking a third weapon into an ankle holster, Peter, pale and fidgety, and Ando, who shoved on a black ski cap before giving Hiro a decisive nod.

 

“Stand together,” Hiro said. “We must be touching.”

 

They gathered into a circle, hands joined, and Hiro gave one last glance around the room, locking eyes with each person for a moment before nodding to Peter. They closed their eyes together, and they all disappeared.  
***********

 

The Secret Service agents wrestled a half-dressed Nathan out into the living room. He couldn’t say he was surprised to see Alicia Madden waiting for him with an escort of Homeland Security troops at her back.

 

“Good evening Mister President.”

 

“Alicia. What is this all about?” Nathan stood up straight, shoulders back, ignoring the throb in his kidney where he’d been kicked. Playing it cool, like this was just a mistake, a garbled memo.

 

“Did you know that the Secret Service is a division of Homeland Security?”

 

“I must have forgotten. Do you mind explaining exactly what’s going on, Alicia?” He put every ounce of his Petrelli haughtiness into his voice. Even if he couldn’t bluff Alicia, his Secret Service agents might have second thoughts about assaulting their Commander in Chief. “I’ve got a big speech to give tomorrow, so if you don’t mind—.”

 

Alicia nodded, and the Secret Service agent standing next to Nathan hit him once, hard, a closed fist to the stomach. Nathan began to revise his opinions about loyalty.

 

When Nathan straightened up, Alicia asked, “Where’s your family, Mister President?”

 

“I had them take an unscheduled vacation.” Nathan felt proud that he was able to deliver his line with much more bravado than normally displayed by a man clad only in pajama pants. He _was_ afraid, though. Monty had warned him, so he’d taken measures to keep his family safe, but he’d never believed for a moment that he himself would be in danger. At least Peter was safe and out of this. At least he’d gotten to see him one last time.

 

“That’s interesting,” said Alicia. “Where?” Nathan shook his head. Alicia sighed, and the Secret Service agent hit Nathan again, this time in the side of his face. Alicia turned to one of the men behind her. “Call Ginsberg. Find out where the First Family is. I don’t care who you have to get out of bed. Tell them it’s a matter of national security.”

 

Nathan kept up a casual smile while she gave her orders. He was confident Heidi and the boys wouldn’t be found. No one had a reason to look for them in Texas, and they’d told no one where they were going. If Nathan didn’t get out of this, Peter would protect them. If nothing else, Petrellis knew to take care of family first.

 

Alicia glanced at her watch, then back at Nathan. She seemed to be waiting for something. Nathan had no way to know for sure exactly what Alicia had planned, but the Homeland Security troops standing at attention along the wall provided a strong clue.

 

“I take it this is some sort of coup,” he said as offhandedly as he could manage.

 

“Hardly. Just a return of power to the right hands. Another victory over the terrorists.”

 

“You can’t arrest the President. You don’t have the right.” He drew himself up to his full height and turned to the agent on his left. “Let go of me.” The agent didn’t move, didn’t even acknowledge Nathan.

 

“I’m perfectly within my authority to detain a rogue evolved human,” Alicia said coolly.

 

Nathan’s heart sank. She did know, somehow. That’s why the Secret Service agents were so eager to condemn him. “People aren’t going to buy that argument.” Nathan sneered, but he didn’t believe it. He himself was proof that people would believe any lie if it came in the right packaging. “They’ll bury you.”

 

“If you think that, you really have lost touch with the people.” Alicia strode to the window and looked out over the lawn. “What America needs is fear, not freedom. You won’t be around to see it, but I promise the country will be a much better place with you out of the way.”

 

Nathan’s first instinct was to tell Alicia that she wouldn’t get away with this, but he stopped himself. He wasn’t quite that desperate yet. Instead, he said, “Did anyone ever tell you you’re a real bitch?”

 

Then the lights went out. “It’s all right,” Alicia called immediately. “Don’t panic.” But the guards had already broken out into muttering.

 

Nathan sprang into action. He broke the grip of one of the Secret Service agents and slammed his elbow back into the man’s face. The man crumbled with a cry of pain. A sweep of his legs had the other agent on the floor, and Nathan stumbled forward blindly. A pair of hands grabbed at him, and he dodged right into a circle of arms that wrapped around him and didn’t let go. Blue emergency lights flickered on. The agent holding Nathan roughly twisted his arms up behind his back.

 

“Sloppy,” Alicia admonished with a sniff. “The blackout means our friends are here.”

 

“You started without us!”

 

In the doorway stood a balding older man who looked vaguely familiar to Nathan. He was flanked by two young women, a brunette and a blonde, both sporting wicked smiles. “Are we late?” asked the man.

 

“Right on time,” Alicia said. “Nathan was just leaving.” Nathan struggled again briefly—they could be taking him anywhere, even out of the country. Two more agents jumped in to restrain him. “For God’s sake, how many of you does it take to handle one out-of-shape politician?”

 

The first agent opened his mouth to apologize, and Nathan felt his grip loosen a fraction. This might be his last chance. With a desperate effort he threw off the agents and launched himself toward the window. He couldn’t fly as fast as he wanted—couldn’t risk cutting his throat on broken glass—but he was almost there. He’d be gone before they knew what was happening.

 

Suddenly Nathan screamed in agony as he felt an electric shock rip through him. He fell to the floor, writhing in pain as aftershocks wracked him. When he opened his eyes, the blonde woman was smiling above him. “No no no,” she said, waving a finger at him.

 

“Impressive.” That was Alicia’s voice. “Elle, I take it? All right gentlemen. Elle is going to help you escort the President to his new home. Put him in the chopper.”

 

As the agents lifted him by the arms and pulled him toward the door, he heard Alicia say, “Let’s get started.”  
********

 

The lawn of White House was a war zone: gunfire, explosions, fire, people fighting hand to hand.

 

“Move!” Hiro yelled, and the team sprung into action.

 

Peter felt something pulling him forward, an impending sense that if he didn’t _move_ , his brother was going to die. He lost track of everything around him as he ran across the lawn at super speed. Flashes of the chaos penetrated his vision, but he didn’t stop to investigate: uniformed soldiers firing blindly into the darkness; a blonde woman kicking a man several feet across the lawn, a hooded figure throwing a knife.

 

Peter ignored it all. He had to find Nathan  
****************

 

Gabriel froze the water in the fountain, effectively trapping the guards who’d fallen in after his latest attempt at telekinetic bowling. He darted back toward the cover of the bushes, scanning the lawn as he ran. He’d lost track of the others, but if he could just make it to the White House porch—.

 

“I know you. You’re the villain.”

 

Gabriel froze. This must be what going mad felt like, staring back at his own face, angry and cruel.

 

“This is our kind of party, isn’t it?” Sylar said. “You’ve killed lots of people. I bet you love this.”

 

“What—?” Gabriel backed up a step. This could not be happening.

 

“Come on, you can’t say it’s not fun! Look at all this!” Sylar waved grandly at the chaos unfolding around them. “And you were one of the first steps along the way. Making them afraid of us. Making them understand how we’re superior.”

 

“Shut up.” Gabriel shook his head to clear it, but Sylar didn’t disappear.

 

Sylar raised his hand, pointing, and Gabriel followed his eyes to where Micah and Molly were running side-by-side across the lawn, dodging and weaving. A quick flick of his wrist, and the ground heaved beneath them, separating the two and sending them tumbling. “Do you think we can take out all of them before anyone else gets a chance?”

 

Gabriel threw out a hand to toss Sylar aside with telekinesis. Nothing happened.

 

Sylar laughed. “I’m the stronger one. You’re weak. You always have been. That’s why you created me in the first place. To do what you wanted to but couldn’t.”

 

“Don’t.” Gabriel closed his eyes.

 

“We could kill all of these roaches. We could do it easily. I know you’d like to. Can you taste it? I know you think about it.”

 

“That’s not me!” Gabriel opened his eyes again, and immediately wished he hadn’t. Nothing was moving on the White House lawn anymore. The grass was carpeted with bodies, bodies that Gabriel recognized. Hiro, and Parkman, and Peter, but also Isaac Mendez and Dale Smither. And his mother. “No,” Gabriel whispered.

 

“This is your destiny,” Sylar said. “No one is as special, as powerful as us. Look at what you can do, what you were always meant to do.”

 

Gabriel recognized another face, lying right at his feet, dark curls framing a face distorted in terror. Sylar was close behind him, breath hot on his neck. Gabriel felt arms encircle his waist, pulling him back against a body that fit perfectly against his. “Now it’s just us,” Sylar whispered in his ear.  
***********

 

Mohinder ducked behind the corner of the tennis court fence as two armed soldiers ran past. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure who all these people were, who was on what side. All he could do was try to make it to the White House alive. The pistol was warm in his hand, its weight dragging him down. “Come on,” he said to himself angrily, and with a last look around, he broke cover, heading in the direction he was fairly sure the others had gone.

 

Gunshots skittered across the night from far away, but the closest thing he heard was shouting. Someone nearby was repeating, “No no no no no,” in a panicked, desperate chant.

 

Gun at the ready, Mohinder crept through the night, toward the sound. It could be one of Hiro’s team, injured. Maybe he could help. Wind ruffled his hair, and the moon came out from behind a cloud, revealing a man curled up on his side, not twenty feet away. It was Gabriel, and he was whimpering, “No, I’m sorry. Please, no.”

 

A pudgy, balding man stood over Gabriel, smiling cruelly. Mohinder crept closer, keeping his eyes on the stranger, whose concentration seemed fixed on his prone victim. Gabriel began to claw at his face, and now his tone no longer seemed defeated. He sounded enraged. “I hate you,” he screamed, and Mohinder noticed he’d begun to glow. It wasn’t the pure white light that Peter had emitted the night they’d outrun Homeland Security. This was a deeper orange, an angry color. Mohinder struggled to remember what Gabriel had said about nuclear energy, and quickly came to the conclusion that this was not likely to be the harmless sort.

 

The man standing over Gabriel began to back up but didn’t take his eyes off his victim. Mohinder saw him reach for his hip, saw the glint of plastic in the moonlight, and readied his own gun. The man had no weapon, though. He raised a radio to his mouth, and over Gabriel’s shouting, Mohinder heard him ask, “Is he supposed to be glowing?”

 

Mohinder couldn’t hear the response that came back, but the stranger’s smile grew as he dropped the radio to his side. Now Gabriel was writhing on the ground, lighting up the lawn around him bright as day. He was screaming, “I’m not like you! I’m not!”

 

Mohinder took a step forward, tearing his eyes away from Gabriel to aim at his attacker. “Hey,” he yelled. The man whirled around, eyes widening as he stared down the barrel of a gun. “Get away from him,” Mohinder said, and pulled the trigger.

 

He skirted past the body of the man to kneel next to Gabriel’s prone form. “Gabriel?”

 

The nuclear glow had completely disappeared, and Gabriel’s skin felt cold to the touch. His eyes snapped open, but it took them a moment to focus on Mohinder, a moment more to register recognition. “Mohinder?” he said tentatively. Then Mohinder found himself crushed in a tight embrace, Gabriel shivering in his arms. “You’re alive,” he said, muffled into Mohinder’s shoulder.

 

“Yes, of course,” Mohinder said, confused. “Are you hurt?”

 

“I don’t think so.” Gabriel pulled away reluctantly, and looked at the corpse behind Mohinder. “A nightmare. It was a nightmare.” His eyes snapped back to Mohinder. “Thank you.”

 

Gunfire shattered the night again, this time not far off, and both men stood at once. “We need to move,” said Mohinder.

 

“Stay close,” Gabriel said. “We don’t have far to go now.”  
***************

 

Matt sprinted the last ten yards to the White House porch, taking cover behind a column. He was relieved to see Molly and Micah pressed against the opposite wall behind Alai and Lara.

 

“You guys okay?” Matt asked.

 

Micah nodded, and Molly gave him a weak smile.

 

Hiro came leaping onto the porch, sword bared, and Ando was close behind him, shoving a new clip into his gun. Matt noticed Hiro sweep his eyes over the assembly, taking a quick head count. “Dean?” he asked.

 

Lara shook her head.

 

“Where did Peter go?” Hiro squinted past the rose garden out onto the dark lawn where shouts and gunshots were still echoing.

 

“He ran ahead,” Alai said. “Just took off.”

 

“He’s inside,” said Molly firmly. “Somewhere.”

 

“Gabriel? Mohinder?”

 

“They were behind me,” Matt said. “A while ago.”

 

Alai poked his head out behind a column, and quickly returned. “I think I see them. We’ll help them out. Lara?” She raised her gun in answer, and the two darted off the porch.

 

“We should follow Peter,” said Hiro.

 

Ando tried the door. “Locked.”

 

Matt frowned in confusion. “Then how did Peter—?”

 

“Phased,” said Hiro.

 

Micah pressed his hand on the panel next to the door and concentrated. “The White House has a really cool system that locks down when there’s a power outage. It’s got its own emergency backup, so even if—.”

 

“Can you open it?” Matt interrupted.

 

Micah bristled only a little, and grumbled, “Duh.” He closed his eyes, and seconds later Matt heard the sound of a lock turning. Ando tried the handle again, and the door swung open. Inside, the halls of the White House were dimly lit by blue emergency lights.

 

Hiro looked at his friends, who were staring doubtfully into the dark recesses of the building. “We’ve got a world to save,” said Hiro. “Let’s go.”  
*****************

 

With Nathan out of the way, Alicia took Bob and Candice to the third floor of the residence, away from the eyes of the Homeland Security guards. Bob was glad to leave behind the gun-toting men, who looked not only trigger happy, but had been eying him warily, as if searching for visual evidence of any special genetic marker.

 

“Jessica’s started the attack,” Bob explained on their way up the stairs. “Our people are ready to cut and run once we give the signal.”

 

“Not yet,” said Alicia. “The most important tactic in controlling a population is fear. That’s what tonight is about. A large body count on both sides will be best for the press.”

 

“My people aren’t here to be slaughtered,” Bob protested.

 

“Neither are mine. But you can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs,” said Alicia. She stopped to fix Bob with a searching glare. “You knew that people would be killed tonight. I hope you’re not getting cold feet.”

 

“We’ve already taken out everyone in the West Wing,” Candice jumped in. “We’ve got this really talented girl who made the job super easy.” Alicia turned her attention to her for the first time, eying her skeptically. “You must be Candice.”

 

“I’m your girl,” she said. “And now that we’re alone…” She glanced around the hall where they stood. The air around her seemed to shimmer for a moment, and then Nathan Petrelli stood where she had been. “What do you think?”

 

“Very impressive,” Alicia said slowly. She reached out a hand to touch Candice/Nathan on the arm. “No one will know the difference.”

 

The look on Alicia’s face was almost predatory, and Candice smiled in return. Seen through the lens of her Nathan Petrelli disguise, the expression was highly disturbing. Watching the two interact, Bob felt as if he’d entered an arena with two hungry lions, but he was careful to show no sign of his fear. He would never have a better chance than tonight to get the information he needed. It was up to him to make sure the Company’s sacrifices were not in vain.

 

“Well,” Bob said, more to end the moment between the two women than to make a point. “Having a President who’s reasonable will make all our lives much easier.”

 

Alicia turned back to Bob quickly, as if she’d forgotten he was there. “I’m surprised that you are willing to participate in this,” she said. “You must not have much regard for your fellow specials.”

 

“As long as the people I care about are safe,” he said carefully. He knew he was playing a dangerous game. Alicia would never give Bob what he wanted unless the payoff was enough to override her distrust of evolved humans. Candice was the carrot that had the potential to solve that problem.

 

“That’s why you want the list,” Alicia said slowly. She turned to Candice. “Let me ask you something. Who’s on the list that you care about?”

 

“Just me, really,” said Candice with a shrug.

 

“A girl after my own heart.” Alicia and Candice/Nathan exchanged broad grins, and Bob got the uncomfortable feeling that the two women had reached a silent understanding.

 

“Bob.” Alicia turned back to him. “Remind me again why you’re here.”

 

“This is a simple business deal,” he said. He was trying to project confidence, but he suddenly wished he hadn’t sent Elle with Petrelli. “I help you create the circumstances you need to install Candice here as President and make the policy changes you want, and you help me make some small alterations to the list.”

 

“And you’ve done your part, haven’t you?” Alicia said. She looked expectantly at Candice. The two women turned to him, identical cruel smiles flashing in the blue emergency light. “I think we’re done with you.”  
*********

 

Claire jerked back to life on the floor of the secretary’s office, and wasn’t too surprised to see that the emergency lights were on. The last thing she remembered was gasping for breath in a room that seemed to have been emptied of oxygen. Two Secret Service agents lay near the door. She scrambled over to feel for a pulse, but there was none. She wondered how wide-spread the effect was, and took a minute to be grateful that the White House had been fairly empty when whatever-it-was happened.

 

At this time of night, she was only here because—Nathan. If Bennet wasn’t coming to help, it was up to her to make sure nothing terrible happened to her biological father. She ran through the Oval Office, which was deserted, and down the hallway. At the foot of the stairs a shadowy figure crouched over a pile of uniformed bodies. She froze, realizing that she was weaponless. Keeping her eyes on the figure, she backed up, and accidentally bumped into a chair: its scraping against the floor was shockingly loud in the deserted building. The man’s head snapped up at the noise.

 

Claire stared. “Peter?”

 

“Claire!” It was him. His hair was shorter, and now he looked almost ready to burst with agitation, but it was definitely Peter. “What are you doing here?”

 

“I—.” There was no time to explain, no time to ask any of the thousand questions she needed answers to. “Peter, something’s happening.”

 

“I know. Where’s Nathan?”

 

“I don’t know. I’m afraid they’ve done something to him.”

 

“Who?” He grabbed her by the shoulders. “Claire, who?”

 

“I think it’s the people my dad works for. The Homeland Security people are going to make him disappear. They killed everyone so there’d be no witnesses.”

 

“No.” His eyes unfocused for a moment. “He’s not in the building. “They’re taking him somewhere.” He hesitated, hovering between her and the door. “I have to go,” he said finally. “I have to get Nathan.” Then he disappeared.  
*****************

 

“Captain, I need you to sweep the rest of the building. Kill anyone with a tattoo on their wrist. Anyone who displays anything that might be a power. I’ll be back with you shortly.” Alicia hung up the phone and turned back to see Candice/Nathan wiping off her knife on Bob’s shirt.

 

“So now that I’m the President,” Candice said without looking up. “Don’t all those Secret Service guys think I’m a traitor? Aren’t they going to try to kill me?”

 

Alicia shook her head. “Anyone who saw the real President leave will be killed tonight. That will keep you safe, and add to the body count, which is what we need to make this really hit home.”

 

Candice stood and re-folded her knife, tucking it into a pocket. “Well what’s next?”

 

“You’re going back to the second floor, where you’ll be safe from the nasty terrorists. I can trust you not to get yourself killed, can’t I?”

 

Candice glanced at Bob, then back at Alicia. “Uh huh.”

 

“I’ll be in the West Wing, making sure the rest of the attack goes as planned. I’ll send a team of Secret Service agents to give you your speech for tomorrow. It’s going to be a big day.” She headed for the stairs, then paused and turned back. “Candice.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“I’m starting to like you,” Alicia said. “But do not double-cross me. I don’t care what little illusions you have up your sleeve, if you betray me I will gut you like a fish. Understand?”

 

Watching Alicia sweep down the stairs, Candice muttered, “Okay then.”  
***************

 

Noah Bennet snapped his cell phone shut. “Claire’s still not answering her phone. Damnit!”

 

“That doesn’t mean anything for sure,” said D.L. Bennet ignored him. The Haitian, following behind them, said nothing.

 

The three strode up to the north White House gate. Bennet started to get a bad feeling when he saw that instead of the normal guard, the gatehouse was bristling with a group of Homeland Security task force soldiers.

 

“Mr. Bennet!” An officer waved at them, and Bennet recognized him immediately. He was one of the Homeland Security strike force leaders, and there was no reason for him to be here. “Sir,” the man said, pulling Bennet into the guard house and shaking his hand. “Thank God you’re here.”

 

“What is your team doing here?”

 

“Secretary Madden called us in,” he said. He seemed surprised that Bennet had asked. “Special Executive Order for protection of the President. They attacked just after oh-two-hundred. The Secretary told us the Secret Service would secure the interior. The power went out maybe ten minutes ago, and we haven’t been able to get it back.”

 

“Claire…” Bennet spared a glance for the White House, which was ominously dark. “How many men do you have?”

 

“Twenty-two left. There’s another squad on the south lawn right now, holding them off, but…” He shook his head. “Sir, we’re getting killed out here. The terrorists—.” An explosion echoed across the grounds, lighting up the sky on the south lawn, beyond the White House itself.

 

“They’re specials. Damn it.” Bennet turned to the Haitian. “Stay here. Help as best you can. Keep an eye on him.”

 

“Let me come with you,” D.L. said. “I can help!”

 

“I don’t think so.”

 

Bennet turned to go, but the Haitian stepped in front of him. “You should not go by yourself. You don’t know what’s happening in there.”

 

“Watch him,” Bennet said, and made a break for the White House.  
**********

 

Ando jumped around the corner and was greeted with another empty hallway. He dropped his gun and turned to the others. “We’ll never find anyone at this rate,” he said hopelessly.

 

Hiro eyed the empty hallway with trepidation, but he finally nodded. “Ando, you and I will go that way. “You three will go upstairs. Will you be okay on your own?”

 

“Of course,” said Molly. “We’ve got Matt with us.” Micah rolled his eyes.

 

Ando and Hiro disappeared down the hallway, leaving Matt looking around uncertainly. “This place is like a maze,” he muttered. “No wonder politicians are so angry.”

 

“There was a map in the computer,” said Micah impatiently.

 

Matt sighed. “So which way, wonder boy?”

 

Micah glared until Molly said, “Stairs, maybe?”

 

“This way.” Micah pointed down the hall, and Matt led the way, gun at the ready. The creak of the staircase seemed overly loud in the unnaturally quiet house, and when they reached the third floor, the residence was dark and empty. Matt was just trying to build up the courage to check one of the rooms when he heard Molly shout.

 

“I think I found a body.”

 

In an instant, Micah was beside her, feeling for a pulse. “He’s not dead,” he said.

 

Matt knelt on the other side, quickly assessing the situation by the weak blue glow of the emergency light down the hall. The man was older—maybe he was some sort of Presidential assistant. If he saw what happened, maybe he could help. Matt put his hand on the man’s chest to feel for breathing, and encountered the warm stickiness of blood. Whoever this man was, he wouldn’t be helping anyone for very much longer.

 

With a grunt of pain, the man’s eyes snapped open. Micah and Molly jumped back a little, and the man focused his gaze on Matt.

 

“Madden—,” he croaked.

 

“It’s okay,” Matt said. “Don’t try to speak. Just think. I can hear you.”

 

The man stared intently at him. _You’re Parkman._

 

“How did you know that?”

 

 _Never mind._ He reached weakly for Matt’s arm, clung to it. _We came here tonight to get the list, to destroy it._

 

“Mohinder’s list? Why?”

 

_If they don’t know who we are, they can’t hunt us._

 

“Who’s we?”

 

 _You’re one of us._ Matt’s skepticism must have shown on his face, because the man shook his head weakly. _I used to work for the Company. You know them. But I came here to destroy the list._

 

“Losing the list won’t change anything.” He looked at Micah and Molly, who stared back at him in confusion. “He’s from the Company,” Matt said contemptuously. They drew away from the dying man as if he might bite them.

 

 _The list is a symbol_ , the man thought at him. _I promise that destroying it will change things._

 

Matt snorted in disbelief. “Why should I listen to you?”

 

_You’re a pessimist, just like your father._

 

Matt froze. “What?”

 

_There’s a master copy of the list. Alicia Madden has it. She wouldn’t tell me where. You can find out. You have to destroy it._

 

“How?” he asked, despite himself. He listened, but the man’s eyes had gone glassy and vacant. He was dead.

 

Micah and Molly looked at each other, then at Matt. “So, what did he say?” Molly asked.

 

“He said someone named Alicia Madden had a master copy of Mohinder’s list, and that we should destroy it.”

 

“If he’s from the Company, we shouldn’t do anything he says,” Micah said firmly.

 

“But Alicia Madden is the Secretary of Homeland Security,” Molly said. “Remember when she came to visit our school, Micah?” She shuddered. “I’m pretty sure she’s one of the bad guys.”

 

“Well, just because he told the truth about one thing doesn’t mean he can be trusted,” Matt grumbled.

 

Molly looked searchingly at him. “What else did he say?”

 

“It’s nothing,” said Matt. “Something about my father. I don’t know what he meant.”

 

“Hm.” Matt was pretty sure Molly’s wasn’t buying it. “But if we could destroy the list, think what that would mean,” she said slowly. “They wouldn’t know who to arrest anymore.”

 

“Yeah.” Matt pulled up his sleeve to show his helix tattoo. “It wouldn’t be obvious at all.”

 

“No, she’s right,” said Micah. “They get kids when they’re young nowadays because the list tells them who’s going to be different. If they didn’t know…”

 

“Okay, fine,” said Matt. “So destroying the list would be a good thing. What do we do about it?”

 

“We have to get Alicia Madden to tell us where the master copy of Mohinder’s list is and destroy it? That’s it?” Molly asked.

 

“What do you mean ‘that’s it?’” Matt asked.

 

Molly rolled her eyes. “Find Alicia Madden.” She pointed to herself. “Get her to tell us where the list is.” She pointed to Matt. “Destroy it.” She pointed to Micah. “How could this be more simple?”

 

Micah and Matt exchanged a nervous glance. Micah shrugged, so Matt couldn’t argue. “Let’s go,” he said.  


* * *


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It all comes down to tonight.

D.L. was amazed at how the Homeland Security soldiers fell in line for the Haitian. They’d followed him without question, creeping along the east edge of the building, and now they were all waiting for his signal to charge around the corner and turn the tide of the battle.

 

“We have a weapon that will temporarily disable their abilities,” the Haitian was saying. “When they realize this, they will run. You must take them before they know what’s happening.”

 

“You’re just going to kill them all?” D.L. asked.

 

The Haitian glared at him. “That’s what war is,” he said tightly.

 

“But—,” he began.

 

The Haitian cut him off. “Go,” he said to the soldiers. They sprang out onto the lawn, but the Haitian grabbed D.L. by the arm before he could join them.

 

“Here,” he pressed a gun into D.L.’s hand. “Just in case.”

 

“Should you really be giving me this?” D.L. asked.

 

“You are on the right side, I know it,” the Haitian said. “Go.”  
********

 

Claire followed the sound of voices. She had no idea who had cut the power and killed everyone in the West Wing, but she was starting to get irritated. Peter had shown up and then just disappeared. Here she was trying to help, and she didn’t even know who the bad guys were. She heard footsteps approaching, loud in the quiet halls.

 

“Hello?” Claire dashed around the corner, but stumbled back a step as she felt the blunt, icy-cold pain of a bullet impact her chest. The shock of the pain carried her to the floor.

 

“Oh shit,” someone said from nearby. “She’s got a staff badge.” The flushed face of a uniformed young man appeared above her. “Oh shit.”

 

“Who’s in charge here?” A familiar voice pulled at her consciousness from a great distance.

 

“Shit man, do something!” Another uniformed man appeared beside the first, pressing his hand against Claire’s wound.

 

“Get off,” Claire muttered, pushing the man away. She felt the bullet working itself out of her, and began to worry. They couldn’t see her regenerate—that would ruin everything.

 

“Claire?” The familiar voice came again. “Get away from her!” The two uniformed men disappeared, replaced by her father, his face lined with anger. “I’ll take care of this. You two, go find some real bad guys to shoot. Go!”

 

“Dad,” Claire said happily.

 

“You okay, Claire Bear?”

 

She coughed violently for a moment, and heard the bullet plink to the floor. “I’m good.” She sat up, wiping her bloody hands on her sweater. “Were those Homeland Security troops?”

 

Bennet nodded grimly. “The place is crawling with them. Alicia Madden gave them shoot to kill orders on any evolved human.”

 

“Dad, what is going on?”

 

“There’s some sort of attack outside.” Bennet looked down the hall after the soldiers. “But if Alicia’s people are in here, too—.”

 

“I’m telling you, they’re trying to get rid of the President.” Claire scrambled to her feet. “I saw Peter, and he—.”

 

“Peter Petrelli?”

 

“Yes, Peter,” Claire said. As if she would mean anyone else. “He said they were taking Nathan away, and he went after them.”

 

“Peter Petrelli?” Bennet repeated incredulously.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Alicia must have planned all this. If she’s getting rid of Nathan…”

 

Claire watched as understanding lit up her father’s face. “What?”

 

“Candice. She’s going to replace him.” Bennet grabbed her by the hand and led her back down the hall the way he’d come. Two Homeland Security soldiers greeted him at the entrance to the Blue Room. “Where’s the President?” he asked without preamble.

 

“Safe in the Residence,” said the first soldier. “Upstairs. We sent a detachment of Secret Service agents to guard him.”

 

“Is… Is she okay?” asked the second soldier, staring uneasily at Claire’s blood-soaked sweater.

 

Bennet ignored him. “When did you send the detachment?”

 

“About three minutes ago.”

 

Bennet looked questioningly at Claire, and she shook her head. The real Nathan was long gone; he couldn’t possibly be the one they were guarding upstairs.

 

“I’m going up to the Residence,” Bennet announced. “Radio ahead and tell your people not to shoot us.”

 

“Uh… of course,” said the second soldier, wilting a little under Bennet’s glare. Claire gave him a sympathetic smile before following her father upstairs.  
*********

 

Nathan stared out the tiny window of the helicopter, trying to figure out where they were heading. He studiously ignored the two impassive Secret Service agents sitting across from him, the blonde girl, Elle, on the seat beside him, and the various aches all over his body from his earlier struggles. He was waiting for his next opportunity to run.

 

Elle pressed against him and ran a soft hand down his cheek, already purpling from the earlier hit. “They bruised you,” she said. It was almost a pout.

 

Nathan was tempted to ignore her, but she was the one he needed to distract in order to have any chance of escape. Nathan turned to look at her. Her girlish smile set his teeth on edge. “Look on the bright side—at least we’re keeping you alive,” she said.

 

“That’s nice.” He’d have another chance to escape, then. They weren’t taking him somewhere just to kill him.

 

“So you and I will get to spend a lot of time together.” She swung a leg over his lap, neatly straddling him.

 

He barely stopped himself from pushing her off.

 

“Don’t tell the suits,” she whispered. “But when we land I get to kill them and take you with me back to Hartsdale. Cool, huh?”

 

“I’m married,” Nathan said, loud enough for the agents to hear.

 

Elle shrugged and ran a finger down his nose. A blue light flickered, shocking him, and he jerked in his seat. Elle laughed delightedly, like a little girl, and wrapped her arms around Nathan. “We’re going to have a great time together.”

 

Outside there was a sudden flash of bright white light. The helicopter jolted, emitting an anguished mechanical squeal. Elle tumbled off Nathan’s lap, smacking into the floor with a painful thud, and the compartment was plunged into darkness.

 

“Ow. That was unnecessary,” Elle complained.

 

“The goddamn power blew,” the pilot shouted. “Back-up’s out, too.” Above them, the rotors were slowing. “Get your parachutes on.”

 

“Parachutes?” Elle squeaked.

 

Discussion was cut off by another violent shriek of metal on metal as the chopper door was pulled off. Elle charged her hands with electricity, and in that faint light Nathan could see both the Secret Service agents pointing their guns out into the darkness.

 

Peter appeared—just appeared out of nowhere—hovering out in the air like an avenging angel. Bullets flew first, and Peter halted them effortlessly, holding up a hand that stopped them in the air. “Look out for the girl!” Nathan barely had time to yell a warning before Elle threw a ball of electricity at Peter. Nathan watched in horror as Peter, dazed, started to fall out of the sky.

 

“No!” Nathan shouted. Before he could think, he was out of the helicopter, speeding after Peter. Elle’s blast caught him in the back, sending him spinning, falling.

 

Strong arms caught him, pulling him out of his tailspin. “That wasn’t quite what I was expecting,” Peter chuckled into his ear. “But it worked.”  
********

 

Matt thought he might never be able to relax again after all of this. So far he’d managed to keep himself, Micah, and Molly out of sight of the roaming Homeland Security soldiers by overhearing their thoughts. Now if only Alicia Madden would stop moving so Molly could pinpoint her location, they might actually have a chance of accomplishing their mission.

 

Matt froze as he overheard another thought. _So much for that. Now we just have to finish off the ones on the lawn._ That voice was definitely female. Matt raised a questioning eyebrow, and Molly pointed urgently around the corner.

 

“Freeze!” Matt shouted, jumping out with his gun drawn. Micah and Molly stood to either side of him, holding their tazer guns threateningly.

 

 _What the hell is this?_ “You people are starting to damage my calm,” said Alicia. She was shorter than Matt had expected, a dark-haired woman whose sharp face reminded him of Officer Hanson’s long-ago comment that law enforcement tended to attract a certain kind of women: bitches.

 

“Where’s the list?” Matt demanded.

 

 _How does everyone know about this all of a sudden?_ “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” _This place is crawling with Homeland Security agents. No one is getting to that vault._

 

“What vault?” Matt asked, and was satisfied to see a flash of concern in Alicia’s eyes before she masked it.

 

 _No one’s supposed to know about that. That’s why the building plans don’t show the subbasement._ “Are you supposed to be part of Jessica Sander’s little group?”

 

“Jessica?” Micah asked. Molly shushed him, and they both resumed brandishing their tazers.

 

“Just put down the gun,” Matt said. “I don’t want to have to hurt you.”

 

“Not a chance,” said Alicia. _Just keep him talking, backup’s bound to come eventually._

 

“The subbasement. How do you get there?”

 

 _He knows too much. There’s no time._ “I’ll show you,” she said. She took a slow step toward them, but Matt saw the reflection of silver in the window behind her as she drew her gun.

 

Before Matt could react, she’d grabbed Molly, effortlessly slapping the tazer out of her hand and wrapping an arm around her throat. “I’m surrounded by amateurs,” Alicia muttered, and pressed her gun against Molly’s temple. Matt and Micah both held very still, and Matt felt his own panicked thoughts being pressed by Micah’s near-hysteria.

 

“Let’s just stay calm,” Alicia said, addressing Matt. “There are soldiers all over the building. You’re trapped. Just come quietly, and we’ll let the kids live, okay?” _Lower that gun so I can blow your brains out._

 

“Molly!”

 

Mohinder and Gabriel appeared at the end of the hallway, and it was Mohinder who had shouted.

 

“Oh for God’s sake.” Alicia fired down the hallway. Gabriel held up his hand, bringing the bullets to a harmless stop and letting them drop to the floor.

 

“Interesting,” said Alicia. _Things are getting too crowded._ In one quick move, she pushed Molly hard to the side, sending her crashing through the window, and took off up the stairs.

 

“No!” Matt, Mohinder, and Micah screamed in unison. Gabriel flung out a hand. They all crowded over to the window to find Molly hovering in midair.

 

“Telekinesis wasn’t meant for flying,” Gabriel said through gritted teeth. Matt, Mohinder, and Micah stepped away from the window so Gabriel could float Molly back inside. As soon as she was on the ground, Micah pounced: fussing over her, wiping blood off the little cut on her cheek, asking if she was okay.

 

“Fine,” she said ruefully. “But I’m really starting to hate that woman.” She turned to Gabriel. “And thanks,” she said. “Really.”

 

“We should go after her,” said Gabriel, starting for the stairs. “She’s probably calling more guards.”

 

“What about the list?” Micah asked.

 

“What list?” Mohinder turned to Matt.

 

“Your list,” Matt explained. “Apparently there’s a master copy, and we can destroy it.”

 

“Really destroy it? So they wouldn’t be able to find more evolved humans?” Mohinder asked excitedly.

 

“Exactly.”

 

“How? When?” Mohinder asked, grabbed Matt’s arm.

 

“She just gave up the location,” Matt said. “A secret subbasement.”

 

Gabriel stepped back over to them. “What about Alicia?” he asked.

 

“She’s still in the building,” Molly said. “Third floor, heading east.”

 

Mohinder looked quickly between Molly, Matt, and Gabriel, and his thoughts were too jumbled for Matt to decipher. Finally he said, “Gabriel and I will go after her. You three can destroy the list?”

 

“If you don’t mind, Doctor Suresh,” Matt said.

 

“You have my full permission.”  
***********

 

Both of them flying together was a new experience. Nathan was sure he couldn’t have found his way in the dark, but Peter kept a tight grip on his hand. Somehow he steered them around trees with no problem, guiding them over the woods until the sound of rotor blades died behind them. Only then did Peter slow down, pulling Nathan with him into a clearing. Nathan didn’t have as much grace in his landing, and he managed to pull them both down into the snow. He jumped up immediately, cursing as he brushed snow off his bare chest.

 

“You’re freezing,” Peter said. He pulled off his long wool coat and wrapped it around Nathan’s shoulders.

 

“Where the hell are we, anyway?” asked Nathan.

 

“Somewhere in Maryland. What’s happening? Who were those people? What did they want with you?”

 

Nathan shook his head. “Alicia Madden, the Secretary of Homeland Security, made some sort of deal with some evolved humans, like that girl with the electricity thing. I don’t know what she’s planning. She needed me out of the way, though.”

 

“Well, she didn’t get you.” Peter started dragging pieces of wood to the center of the clearing, and Nathan watched him for a moment, puzzled.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“I’m going to build us a fire. If we’re going to wait here for a while, we might as well be warm.”

 

“Peter, we’re not done yet. There’s something else. Something worse. Saving me doesn’t save the world.”

 

“I’ve done my part. I got you, and I’m keeping you out of harm’s way.” Peter touched his hand to the center of the pile of wood, and flames leapt up.

 

“That’s it? Peter, I’m just a small part of this. Alicia has some master plan.”

 

“What plan?”

 

“I don’t know, Peter. This isn’t an action movie. The villain didn’t outline her whole plot before she sent me off to be killed.”

 

Peter shrugged and pulled another log up to the fire to sit on. “Whatever it is, Hiro will take care of it.”

 

“Hiro?” Nathan sounded skeptical. “Come on. The man means well, but he’s not you.” Peter said nothing. “Listen… Monty’s been having these dreams, and sometimes they come true. I know this sounds crazy, but I think it might be some sort of ability. He saw—.”

 

“I know.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“The other night, I saw Monty’s dream.”

 

Nathan sat down on the log next to Peter. “You saw it?”

 

“Yeah. Kind of like mind reading,” Peter explained quickly. “Or maybe I absorbed his power. It doesn’t matter how. I saw it.”

 

“Then you know there’s something else we have to do. He said he saw people getting hurt. He saw a bad future, and—.”

 

“You die, Nathan.” Peter couldn’t look at his brother when he said it. “In the dream, you get shot and you die.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Peter couldn’t read Nathan’s expression; it was one he hadn’t seen on his brother before. “So we’re staying right here,” Peter said firmly. “Nobody’s shooting you on my watch.”

 

Nathan stared into the fire for a moment. Then he asked, “You saw this dream?”

“Yeah.”

 

“But there is more to it, isn’t there?” Nathan scooted closer to Peter. “There are worse things than a dead President.”

 

Peter refused to think of the worse things. Nathan’s death was bad enough. He hated that Monty had had to see so many more terrible things. “You’re safe,” he said at last.

 

“That’s not good enough,” said Nathan. “If there’s something else happening, we need to stop it. Come on.” He stood up. “Are we flying or what?”

 

“We’re staying right here,” Peter said stubbornly. “Even if we did go back, I have no idea what’s supposed to happen.”

 

“Think!” Nathan admonished him. “What else was in the dream?”

 

“I don’t know!” Peter pounded his fist on the ground in frustration, and suddenly images from Monty’s dream rushed up to envelop him.

 

_He was standing in line with Mom and Simon. He held tight to Mom’s hand as they got closer to the chain link fence where the guards were pulling people out of line. Just ahead of them, the line passed very close to the woods. Mom leaned down and whispered something to Simon. When the line moved next, Mom let go of his hand, shoving him gently after his brother. They both took off running into the trees._

__

 

_Simon kept hold of his hand, pulling him through bushes and over rocks. A whistle sounded behind them, and they tried to run faster. He stumbled and fell, and Simon dragged him behind a tree. They both sat there panting as sounds of shouting and dogs barking echoed through the forest. Simon looked down at his wrist, scratching at the tattoo there until a whistle shrilled nearby. Simon poked his head out from behind the tree and quickly pulled it back. “They’re too close,” Simon whispered. I’m going to jump out and distract them, and you run as fast as you can.”_

__

 

_“I don’t want to go by myself,” he whispered._

__

 

_“Run and don’t look back,” Simon told him. “Go.”_

__

 

_He did as his brother said and ran until his chest hurt. He didn’t look back until he heard his brother scream. Then, without slowing, he snuck a glance behind him. His foot encountered air instead of dirt, and he tumbled head over heels, sliding down the muddy side of a pit to land on something soft and bumpy. He opened his eyes reluctantly. Body after body, stacks of them filling the pit, stared up at him with empty eyes, stark black tattoos standing out from pale, cold flesh. Monty screamed, scrambling backwards, but there was nowhere to go, no way out of the pit. A soldier appeared at the rim. “Help,” he screamed up to him, throwing up his arms. The man’s eyes flickered from his face to his wrist, and the soldier raised his gun._

 

“Peter.” Nathan was shaking him. “You with me? Peter?”

 

“Yeah.” Peter sat up. “Is it as simple as that?” he whispered.

 

“As simple as what?”

 

“There is something I can do,” Peter said. Even as he said it, he felt hope that this was the way to save the world.

 

Nathan didn’t bother to ask, just reached for his hand, and Peter took them away.  
*********

 

“There’s one! Get him!”

 

Matt scrambled back around the corner as the Homeland Security soldier started to fire. “Are we close, at least?” he asked Micah as he shoved another clip into his gun.

 

Micah nodded. “The plans in the computer show air ducts and electrical conduits leading down here, so there’s got to be a secret room. I’m betting we’re in the right place. The vault should be just down this hallway.”

 

Matt gripped his gun determinedly. “Go on! I’ll hold them off!”

 

Micah pounded down the hallway, and Molly’s footfalls echoed beside his. He couldn’t help but think of all the times they’d run for their lives. If they could do really destroy the list, this could be the last time.

 

“Here,” Micah said, stopping in front of a nondescript metal door. “This is the room.” He touched the key panel, and the door clicked open.

 

The room was full of servers, all humming away industriously. Micah drifted toward the closest, a moth to flame, and leaned his palms against it.

 

“Well?” Molly asked, shifting nervously from foot to foot.

 

“I can see what we need. Give me a minute. I need to get it all. I don’t want to leave them any way to find us.”  
********

 

“I can hear you,” Gabriel called. The floor was quiet except for three heartbeats: his, Mohinder’s and one that seemed entirely too calm for a woman running for her life.

 

“No one needs to get hurt here,” Mohinder shouted. “Just come out.”

 

Alicia made a run for it, darting across the hallway in front of them. Gabriel stopped her in her tracks. “I don’t want to kill you, but if you try anything, I will. With pleasure.” Gabriel regretted his intimidation tactic as soon as the words were out of his mouth. He tried to gauge Mohinder’s expression out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t want to give his friend any reason to doubt his state of mind. But he needn’t have worried. Mohinder held his gun in a white-knuckled grip, and seemed not even to have heard Gabriel.

 

“Threaten me all you want, Sylar,” Alicia said. “I’m not going to hear morally righteous talk from either of you—a serial killer and a traitor.” She turned her glare on Mohinder. “I’m especially disappointed in you, Doctor Suresh. All this time you knew Nathan Petrelli was an evolved human, and you let him run free, let him become President.”

 

“How did you know that?” Mohinder asked. Gabriel noticed that his hand was trembling.

 

“A nice man named Bob came to me with a business proposition. He helped me get rid of Petrelli, and all I had to do was dangle your list in front of him, doctor. That list has been so useful to us, I really can’t thank you enough.”

 

“You won’t be around to enjoy it much longer,” Mohinder said, and raised his gun.

 

“Whoa, easy,” said Gabriel softly. He turned his concentration to Mohinder, cautiously placing a hand on his back. Mohinder shrugged him off.

 

“This is mine,” Mohinder snapped. Gabriel slowly withdrew his hand, but he didn’t relax for a second. Mohinder had killed once tonight on his behalf, but that had been in the heat of battle. Killing an unarmed victim was different, Gabriel knew. He was determined that Mohinder not take any more scars on his soul.

 

“It doesn’t matter,” Alicia said. She still sounded perfectly calm. “Tomorrow everyone will see that evolved human terrorists attacked the White House. Maybe they killed the President and his family, maybe they just gave the President a new perspective. Either way, it’s going to be a brave new world. Nowhere to hide. Safe for normal people. I think that’s worth dying for.”

 

Gabriel held his breath until Mohinder lowered the gun.

 

“I knew you didn’t have it in you, doctor,” Alicia said. Taking advantage of Gabriel’s distraction, she whipped out her own gun, firing blindly down the hallway.

 

As if in slow motion, Gabriel saw Mohinder fall. “No!” He felt something snap inside him, and he was on Alicia before he realized he’d moved, clawing at her with bare hands and telekinesis, feasting on her screams. Blood, sweet and warm on his face, poured over him like baptismal waters, and he felt more than heard the gurgle in her throat as she gasped out her life. “Die,” he screamed at her, at staring, terror-filled eyes. “Die!”

 

Then there were arms around his chest, pulling him away. He clung to the body with single-minded ferocity, clawing at it. He had to destroy it, burn it to ashes, grind it to powder, end it.

 

“Gabriel, let go. Come back.”

 

Mohinder. It was Mohinder. He allowed himself to be dragged off of the corpse, out of the mess of blood. He met Mohinder’s worried eyes. “She shot you,” Gabriel said in confusion.

 

“Grazed.” Mohinder pointed to the bloody furrow in his side. “I’ll live. Are you back with me?”

 

“Yeah.” Gabriel scrubbed a dirty hand across his face, and it came back even bloodier. He ducked his head, suddenly ashamed to be seen. Mohinder unwound his scarf and wiped Gabriel’s face with it.

 

“It’s all right,” he said softly. “Let’s get out of here.”  
*********

 

Matt, Micah, and Molly ran in to Hiro and Ando in the front foyer. “Where have you guys been?” Ando asked.

 

“Destroying the list,” Micah said excitedly.

 

“Huh?” asked Ando.

 

“Never mind,” Matt said quickly. “This place is crawling with Homeland Security guys. We need to get out of here.”

 

“I agree,” said Hiro. “Have you seen—.”

 

“We’re right here,” Mohinder interrupted, jogging up with Gabriel at his side.

 

“Alicia?” Molly asked.

 

“We took care of her,” said Mohinder bleakly.

 

“So is that it? Did we save the world?” Ando asked.

 

“Either way, we should get going,” Micah said. Then, under his breath. “Those servers are going to self-destruct.”

 

“You let him blow up the White House?” Hiro asked Matt incredulously.

 

“Just part of the basement,” Micah grumbled.

 

“This is what happens when you put a fourteen-year-old in charge of saving the world,” said Ando.

 

“Let’s get out of here.” Hiro grabbed Ando’s shoulder, and the rest crowded in around him. Hiro squeezed his eyes shut, and nothing happened. “Uh oh.”

 

“So… Are we leaving?” asked Micah.

 

“Damnit,” Matt said softly. “I can’t hear what you’re thinking.”

“The Haitian,” they all said together.  
********

 

“He in there?” Bennet asked one of the Secret Service agents who stood in front of the door to Treaty Room.

 

“Yep. Safe and sound,” said the man.

 

“I’m here to give him an update,” said Bennet.

 

“Um, is she okay?” asked a second Secret Service agent, his eyes fixed on the large blood stain on Claire’s chest.

 

“It’s okay. I’m his personal secretary,” said Claire, deliberately misunderstanding. She held up her staff badge. “See?”

 

Gunshots and shouting rang out down the hall. The two Secret Service agents tensed, reaching for their firearms. Bennet, too, pulled his gun from its hip holster. “You go hold them off at the landing. I’ll stay with the President,” he said quickly.

 

They hesitated. “Sir, I’m not sure we should—,” one began, but Bennet cut him off.

 

“Do you want one of those evolved humans to set the President on fire from a distance, or create a nuclear explosion that takes out the whole floor, or suck all the oxygen out of this room while you’re standing here sniveling?” he asked. The men shook their heads. “Go on!” Bennet shouted, and they went.

 

Claire gave an impressed “hm,” and held open the door for her father.

 

Candice/Nathan was inside, flipping through the typewritten pages of a speech.

 

“Mister President,” said Bennet.

 

“Noah! Claire!” Candice stood up to greet them, laying her pages facedown. “Gosh, Claire, are you all right?”

 

Claire refrained from rolling her eyes, but made a mental note to taunt Candice about her poor acting skills when the time came for taunting. “I will be,” she said.

 

“Can you believe all of this?” Candice waved a hand at the window. “It’s getting very dangerous to be President nowadays.”

 

“You’re not the President,” Claire said. She heard her father shift beside her, and wondered if she’d given away the game too soon.

 

“No? Then who am I?” she asked smugly.

 

“Candice,” growled Bennet.

 

Candice/Nathan narrowed her eyes at him. “Well aren’t you clever. Help! Terrorists!” she shouted. Nothing happened.

 

Bennet shrugged in faux-apology. “I’m afraid your people are busy dealing with the real threat.”

 

Candice hesitated a moment, and then sprang for the opposite door. Claire was after her in a flash. She had to punch Candice twice to knock her out.

 

Noah came to stand beside her, looking down at Candice as she morphed back into a skinny brunette. He sighed. “Claire, I’ve told you not to hit with a closed fist.”

 

“Why? Broken knuckles don’t bother me.”

 

“Oh Claire.”  
********

 

When Hiro and company came charging out of the West Wing, they almost collided with D.L., who stared at them in disbelief. “It’s a huge damn reunion out here tonight,” he said. “But—the Haitian!” He glanced back over his shoulders.

 

“We noticed,” said Matt.

 

“The soldiers, they’re on their way to take out anything that moves out there. It’s going to be a slaughter.” D.L. pointed out into the darkness, where the rattle of automatic weapons could already be heard.

 

“The only way out is through,” Hiro said, and turned to give his friends a hopeful smile.

 

A small explosion, a grenade, maybe, impacted against a tree no more than twenty feet away, and everyone jumped. “I guess that settles it,” Gabriel grumbled. Pulling Mohinder with him, he took off across the grass. Everyone else followed.

 

The situation on the south lawn was even more chaotic than it had been when they arrived. Hiro sprinted from tree to tree, trying to keep an eye on the rest of his team as they dodged and weaved toward the fence. Without being able to access their powers, they had to be extra cautious. It was hard to keep track of everyone in the dark, but he noticed that Alai had joined them, and Lara, too, making their way to safety by ducking between pieces of cover.

 

The soldiers were firing indiscriminately, shooting at anyone who wasn’t in uniform. It took a few minutes for the others, the ones Hiro didn’t recognize, to realize that their defenses were gone.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Hiro saw a blonde woman—Jessica—come face to face with an armed soldier. She reached for his gun, intending apparently to pull it out of his hand, and froze when she realized she wasn’t strong enough. The soldier shot her point blank.

 

“No!” Hiro turned just in time to see D.L. break cover, running for the man who’d shot Jessica, gun raised, but he was cut down before he’d made it half way. Hiro forced himself to keep moving. He nearly ran into Micah, who had stopped in the middle of the lawn, frozen at what he’d just seen.

 

He grabbed Micah by the arm, dragging him along until they made it to the fence. That’s when the explosion happened. It wasn’t quite as small as Micah had led them to believe, but neither did it level the White House. It shook the ground under them, though, and threw them all to the grass.

 

Praying that the explosion had taken the Haitian out of commission, or at least caused his control to slip, Hiro made a quick decision. He closed his eyes and bent time.  
********

 

Nathan and Peter blinked back into the Oval Office. Moonlight poured in through the windows, and Peter stumbled to the center of the room, sinking gratefully onto the floor.

 

“Peter? Are you okay?”

 

Peter scrubbed a hand over his forehead, surprised to find that he was sweating. “I think it’s using my powers so much,” he said, realizing as he said it how well the theory fit. Gabriel’s influence, seeing how something worked. “I’ll be fine.”

 

“Not going to explode?”

 

“Huh-uh.”

 

“If you have to,” Nathan said. “Let me know. I’ll carry you anywhere.”

 

Peter leaned his head against Nathan’s. “Thank you. Just one more thing to do.”

 

“What do you need?” Nathan asked.

 

“Just hold my hand,” said Peter. “I think you might need to bring me back.”

 

“What does that mean?”

 

“We’ll see,” said Peter. What he had to do now seemed, if not simple, at least straightforward. He closed his eyes and looked. It was Alai’s power that guided him, he thought, but it was Molly’s too, Celia’s, and maybe Matt’s. To start it was like opening box after box, first places Peter recognized: the pens at Chicago’s south side slave auction, Gillette’s brothel, the staff dorms at the Petrelli mansion. Then it was more like seeing lights on a map, a huge aerial view of the entire country, lit up by pinpoints of light as Peter found more and more of them.

 

Soon Peter could see them all, like pieces of a mosaic, image after image of the helix, the ink staining so many bodies, so many lives. He held them in his mind, concentrating on the marks until he felt his own wrist began to throb in sympathy.

 

He held onto the pain in his own body, pain outlining his slave tattoo like a red line of fire. He held onto the pain, but he pictured in his mind Nathan’s wrist, pressed close to his as Nathan clutched his arm: Nathan’s unmarked skin. He saw the marks, every single one of them, and he _pulled._  
************

 

Hiro ended up more or less where he aimed, and had only a second to draw his sword, bringing the pommel up to slam into the chin of the soldier who was aiming at Jessica.

 

Jessica recovered quickly from Hiro’s quick appearance, readying herself to fight, but Hiro shook his head. “Run,” he said. “Your son is waiting for you.”

 

“Mom!” Micah called from the trees behind her.

 

She whirled around. “Micah?”

 

“Run!” Hiro said again, and Jessica did.

 

As he watched Jessica dart behind a tree with Micah, Hiro felt a bullet whiz past his ear, and automatically tried to stop time. Of course, with the Haitian still in range, nothing happened. Holding his sword at the ready, he ran and prayed.  
********

 

Nathan watched Peter’s face carefully, looking for a clue as to what he needed to do, but Peter’s eyes remained stubbornly closed. He held onto Peter’s arm, braced to take action at any moment. Never mind that he had no idea what he was supposed to do. Peter needed him, Peter had asked for his help, and he was _not_ going to let Peter down this time.

 

Suddenly, Peter went stiff, jerking away from Nathan, and would have fallen backwards if Nathan hadn’t caught him. His eyes snapped open, but they didn’t see Nathan. Peter convulsed once in Nathan’s arms, then let out a strange, guttural whimper. Nathan held him gingerly. “Peter?” he whispered.

 

Peter stared straight ahead, and Nathan saw something drip from the corner of his mouth. At first, he thought it was blood, but it was too thin for that, and too dark. A little trickle of it ran from Peter’s nose, and as Nathan watched, it began to drip from his eyes as well, like streams of inky tears. “Peter?” he said again.

 

Peter pulled away again, this time using his full strength, slipping out of Nathan’s arms. He screamed, and from his open mouth poured more of the black stuff, streaming onto the floor in what seemed like a never-ending flood, pouring from Peter’s mouth, from his eyes, from his hands like stigmata.  
****************

 

“Hiro?” Ando turned around in a full circle looking for his friend. He knew he’d been here a moment ago. He turned again at the sound of muffled thuds. Matt had fallen to the ground right next to him, and beyond that, Gabriel was clinging to Mohinder. “We have to keep moving,” he said, glancing nervously back at the dark lawn. “Those soldiers haven’t gone away, you know.”

 

“It hurts,” D.L. gasped, clutching a hand to his wrist. Ando did a double take when he saw him leaning against the fence, supported by Jessica. He was sure they hadn’t been there a minute ago.

 

Ando quickly took stock of who was down: Matt, Gabriel, Alai, D.L.… Everyone who’d had their abilities taken away. Everyone with a helix tattoo.  
*******************

 

“Peter.” Nathan shook his brother, hands sticky with the black stuff, losing his grip on Peter’s skin. “Peter!” There was no response. His eyes remained stubbornly closed.

 

Nathan couldn’t think. He could barely breathe with the weight of dread on him. He pulled Peter into his arms; Peter was lighter than he remembered, but Nathan hated the feel of dead weight. If only Peter would wake up, cling to him, hold on for the ride. Nathan kicked open the French doors, emerging out onto the balustrade, and launched himself skyward.

 

The bay wasn’t far, for him: a few minutes flight. Wind and motion made Peter shift in his arms, and each time Nathan looked down to see if Peter was waking. He wasn’t.

 

City lights gave way to darkness when they reached the water, and Nathan took them down fast. He got a nose full of salt water as he hit the surface of the bay, but he didn’t lose his grip on Peter.

 

Somehow, he thought, if he could wash off the black, if Peter could just get clean, he would be fine. Careful to hold Peter’s head out of the water, he scrubbed the black out of Peter’s hair, off his skin: his hands emerged, then his arms. For a moment, Nathan stared. Both Peter’s wrists were pale, unmarked. His tattoo was gone.

 

Then Peter jerked in his arms.

 

“Peter?” Nathan held his brother’s head above the water gingerly, as if he might break.

 

“It’s f-f-freezing,” Peter said, and latched on to Nathan.

 

“Are you okay?” He looked alive, looked fine in fact, except for the uncontrollable shivering, but a moment ago, with black pouring out of him, Nathan had been so sure he’d finally lost him.

 

“I’m really okay,” Peter said. He looked around, suddenly realizing where they were. “Why’d you dump us in the ocean, dork?”

 

“I dunno. Old time’s sake?” He laughed, delighted and relieved. “I thought I’d lost you again.” He pulled Peter closer, pressing their lips together, kissing Peter until they sank beneath the surface together and had to come up for air.

 

When they’d caught their breath, Peter pushed Nathan’s hair out of his eyes. “You didn’t,” Peter said softly. “You didn’t lose me. I’m here.” The sun was coming up over the ocean. “I’m here.”

 

* * *


	13. Epilogue

Gabriel Gray leaned against his shovel. There were many faster ways to clear snow off the driveway, but he wanted to work up a sweat and burn off some of his depression. He’d been alone at the cabin for twenty six days. The place had seemed small with all of Hiro’s team there. Now, alone with memories of his friends and uncertainties about the future, the place seemed enormous. 

 

His ultra-sensitive hearing caught the sound of a vehicle coming up the road. It was probably still a mile or so off, so Gabriel took his time putting the shovel away in the woodshed. Then he took up a spot on the porch with a clear view of the driveway, shimmered into invisibility, and waited as a green SUV made its way slowly up the mountain drive. 

 

The first thing Gabriel noticed when the driver got out was the man’s garish scarf. He didn’t have to wait for the man to turn around; he knew it was Mohinder. Gabriel was tempted to stay invisible, to claim that he’d been out for a walk. He allowed himself that moment of cowardice, and then he let go of his invisibility. “Mohinder,” he called.

 

Mohinder turned, looking for the source of the voice. When he saw Gabriel his face lit up. He waved before trooping over the half-shoveled walk to join Gabriel on the porch. By the time they were face to face, his smile had dimmed to more modest proportions.

 

“Hello,” said Gabriel.

 

“I had a break from my duties,” Mohinder said brightly. Gabriel said nothing. “They can manufacture Cure antidote without my help now. My job’s really turned into helping people whose abilities are reemerging.” He laughed. “Matt has started calling me Professor Xavier.” Mohinder shoved his gloved hands in the pocket of his coat, shifting uncomfortably. “Like the X-men.” Still Gabriel said nothing. “Micah refers to his family by a different name, though. Fantastic something. I never really read comics.” He kicked at a clod of snow. “We’ve been very busy, but I thought I deserved a little vacation. Actually, Molly threatened to tattle to Nathan if I didn’t give myself a break.” He finally stopped, waiting. 

 

“And you came here,” Gabriel observed.

 

“Yes. I thought it would be nice to see you.”

 

“Come inside, then.” Gabriel led the way, pushing open the front door and kicking the snow off his boots. Mohinder followed him to the kitchen. Gabriel put on the kettle to make tea. He saw Mohinder’s eye dart to the container of chai on the counter, and he winced inwardly. He shouldn’t have left it out; now Mohinder would know he’d been thinking about him.

 

Mohinder slid into a chair at the kitchen table, and Gabriel stood by the stove, waiting for the tea to boil. “How long are you going to stay out here?” Mohinder asked.

 

“Peter’s friend said I could stay as long as I want.” That was the longest sentence he’d spoken in weeks. His voice felt rusty. 

 

“Alone?” Mohinder asked dubiously. 

 

Gabriel shrugged. 

 

“Come back to New York.”

 

At least Gabriel had been prepared for this. Peter had been dropping hints all week during his visits, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out that Mohinder would be the one to finally ask. “No.”

 

“There’s so much you could do to help. When someone gets their powers restored, they often need to find out how to use them. You were so good with Peter—.”

 

“I said no.”

 

“Why not?” To his credit, Mohinder didn’t seem overly surprised by Gabriel’s answer. Gabriel felt a strange mix of relief and disappointment: maybe Mohinder didn’t really care if he came back or not. The kettle whistled, and Gabriel let the silence stretch as he strained the tea into two mugs. He thought briefly of asking Mohinder whether he wanted milk and honey with his, but decided that would be too manipulative. He added the milk and honey the way he knew Mohinder wanted, set the mug down on the table, and returned to his spot by the stove. 

 

“Molly asked about you, you know,” Mohinder said, taking a sip of his chai.

 

“Molly?” he asked skeptically.

 

“Yes. She was just starting to like you. Her words.” Mohinder sipped his tea, set the cup down. “We all miss you.”

 

“Don’t.”

 

“Why not? What are you doing out here that’s so damn important?”

 

“I can’t hurt anyone out here.”

 

Now it was Mohinder’s turn to glare.

 

“Back at the White House… I could have ruined everything. First I almost went nuclear. Then, with Alicia… I was Sylar again. That’s still in me. Don’t pretend you don’t see it.”

 

“I see a man with amazing abilities who is wasting them because he’s afraid.”

 

Gabriel went white with anger. “Out here, I’m not hurting anyone!”

 

“You’re not helping anyone, either!”

 

Gabriel flinched. Mohinder got up from his chair and cornered him by the stove. “You are capable of amazing things, Gabriel Gray. Please come back with me.”

 

Gabriel stared down into his tea. “I can’t say no to you,” he muttered.

 

When he looked up, Mohinder was smiling. “I know.”  
********

 

Hiro juggled the awkward package under his arm as he tried to get his keys out. The skinny package started to slip, and Hiro dropped the keys to catch it. Custom framing was expensive, after all, and it wouldn’t do to break the glass. He was just contemplating freezing time when Ando flung the door open. “What exactly are you doing?” Ando asked suspiciously. 

 

“I’m decorating the apartment,” Hiro said. It felt good to be able to speak Japanese again. With all the press conferences he’d been doing in English over the past few weeks, he’d almost forgotten what his native language sounded like.

 

“Decorating?” Ando repeated skeptically. 

 

“Now that the place is officially ours, we need to put something on the walls.” Hiro explained, sliding past Ando into the apartment and eyeing the big blank walls mournfully.

 

Ando pointed to the large package Hiro was clutching. “Please don’t tell me you are covering the walls in Star Trek posters.”

 

“No.” He leaned the package against the wall, ripping off the brown paper wrapping to reveal a framed painting.

 

“Oh,” Ando said. “That painting.”

 

They both stood and admired it for a moment. The painting showed the steps of the Capitol building at dusk, and in the far distance, the slightly blackened and damaged White House. On the steps were the assembled Heroes, but the right hand corner of the painting only revealed the top of someone's dark hair and a fist raised in victory, clad in a dark sleeve. It could have be Hiro, or Gabriel, or someone else: it was hard to say. Others, further in the background, could have been obscured by the fire damage to the painting itself. 

 

The President, Nathan, was accepting a piece of paper from several other men in suits, but their faces were obscured. Who they were wasn’t important anyway: clearly the focus of the painting was the paper. The words were mostly meaningless scribbles, the way writing often appears in comic panels. At the bottom of the paper was a blank line, and in Nathan's hand was a pen. On the stairs around him were Peter, Matt, Claire, the Haitian, and many others. Evidence of their powers was clear upon most of them: Claire's bloodstained shirt showed flawless skin underneath, Peter's hand burned with white energy, illuminating the scene, Matt and the Haitian had a knowing look in their eyes that transcended the normal. Micah and Molly held hands with fierce determination, and others were scattered amongst the onlookers. Men with suits and earpieces stood around the perimeter. The crowd was sprinkled with cops and military types, but not one cop was reaching for his gun, or even really reacting to the "terrorists" in their midst. 

 

All in all it seemed to be a happy post-victory celebration; the overall mood of the piece was light, despite the dark tones. The people, the Heroes, even the police were smiling, and many hands were raised in a cheer. Tattooed wrists were prominently displayed, but the tattoos had a smudged quality, as if fading around the edges. Faint suggestions of other faces in curls of smoke drifted across the sky, suggesting people in other places were pleased with what was happening. 

 

“And from that, we managed to save the world,” Ando said in wonder. “I can’t say what happened was what I was expecting when I first saw this.”

 

“Me neither.”

 

“That piece of paper,” Ando said, pointing to it in the painting. “You think it’s supposed to be your pardon, or the New Freedoms Act?” 

 

Hiro grinned. “I’m just one man. A Presidential pardon isn’t so important. But a new law that will abolish slavery—that’s a worthy subject for one of Mister Isaac’s paintings. Of course, now that it’s happened, it all seems perfectly clear.”

 

“Does it? You could have predicted that that,” Ando pointed to a fading tattoo on a painted character’s hand, “Meant that Peter Petrelli would be able to take away everyone’s slave tattoos?”

 

“Maybe not. The important thing is that it worked,” Hiro said with a grin. 

 

“Alai tried to explain to me why Peter did it, but he used Doctor Seuss as a metaphor. It was over my head.” Ando shrugged. 

 

“Everyone can look at their fellow humans without fear,” Hiro said. “No one is marked as dangerous.”

 

“You still have your tattoo,” Ando pointed out.

 

Hiro looked down at the helix on his wrist. That symbol had meant many different things in his life, and now its meaning was changing again. “I was in a different time when Peter pulled his trick,” he said. “Mine’s the only one he missed.”

 

“If you ask him, I bet he would remove it for you.”

 

Hiro shook his head. “No. It’s not hurting me anymore. It only means what it used to: godsend. I don’t mind that.”

 

Ando smiled. “Plus, tattoos are badass.”  
**********

 

It never ceased to amaze Peter that he was able to walk right in to the White House. He could have just teleported, of course, but that tended to upset the Secret Service agents, who were all new enough to be both a little in awe of Peter and a little defensive of their methods, so he came to visit Nathan the normal way. 

 

The guard at the gate waved him through, and by the time he made it to the West Wing, news of his arrival had reached Claire. 

 

“Peter!” She jumped out from behind her desk to wrap her arms around his neck, and he hugged her back. 

 

“Hey Claire. How are you?”

 

“Oh, you know.” She straightened out her outfit and sat back down at her desk. “A little bored, a little jealous. Mostly busy.”

 

Peter inclined his head toward the Oval Office. “Is he working you too hard?”

 

She rolled her eyes. “Hardly. He’s too busy to give me much thought, I think.”

 

“Well, if it gets too terrible, you can come work for me,” Peter said with a grin.

 

Claire stuck her tongue out at him. “Special Liaison to the Department of Homeland Security? Please,” she said. “Dad was complaining today that you have the easy job. You just get to strike heroic poses and rescue kittens from trees and set a good example, and he has to do all the paperwork.”

 

Peter chuckled. “Tell Noah he’s welcome to take over my kitten-rescuing duties anytime.”

 

A light flashed on Claire’s desk. “There we go. He must be done with Ginsberg. Go on in.”

 

“Thanks Claire.”

 

Peter walked into the Oval Office and eased the door shut behind him. Nathan was leaning over his desk, pen scribbling furiously. “Hey,” he said without looking up. 

 

“Hey.”

 

“I’m just finishing up this memo. Can you hold on a sec?”

 

“Yeah.” Peter was used to being brushed aside in favor of Nathan’s work; it had happened to him all his life, but this wasn’t like that. They were partners now, working together to make this save-the-world business actually last, and for the first time in his life, Peter felt like Nathan’s equal. 

 

“There.” Nathan dropped his pen and grabbed the suit jacket off the back of his chair, shrugging into it as he walked around the desk. “I hope you’re hungry. I have no idea what the cook’s making. Heidi planned the menu.”

 

“I’m sure it’ll be good.”

 

Nathan pressed a quick kiss to Peter’s lips, a kiss that could have been brotherly. “You okay?” he asked. Peter nodded. “The boys are excited to see you.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Nathan took Peter’s shoulders in his hands. “Don’t be nervous.”

 

“I’m not.”

 

“Peter.” Nathan gave him a gentle shake.

 

“Huh?”

 

 _I’m not a mind reader, and I can hear you worrying._ He ducked his head so Peter had to meet his eyes.

 

“Sorry. It’s just…”

 

“Just…?” Nathan prompted. _Tell me._

 

Peter shook his head. “When I see you with those guys. Heidi and the boys.”

 

“Jealous?”

 

“No!” No, that wasn’t quite it. He couldn’t be jealous of them. They were family. “Just…”

 

Nathan let him flounder for a moment before Peter heard in his mind: _I think I know what you’re getting at._ Out loud Nathan said, “Monty had a dream.” 

 

Peter tensed. “A bad dream?” 

 

“No,” Nathan said quickly. “Well, he was mad, but I promised to take him and Simon to Disney World in June and he got over it.”

 

Peter frowned in confusion. “Mad about what?”

 

“Apparently I’m going on a two week camping trip.”

 

“Okay,” Peter said slowly, trying to connect camping trips to the conversation they’d been having, and coming up blank.

 

“With his Uncle Peter,” Nathan continued.

 

“Yeah?”

 

_Alone. Together._

 

“Oh.” Peter felt the release of tension he didn’t even know he’d been carrying. The promise of having time alone with Nathan made him as excited as a child. 

 

Nathan pulled Peter into a hug. _There will always be room for you in my life, Peter._

 

“I know.” Suddenly Peter was feeling a little better. “You couldn’t keep me out if you tried.”

 

 _I know._ “You ready?”

 

Peter stole a quick kiss before pulling away and brushing his hair out of his face. “Ready,” said Peter. He opened the door for Nathan, and they left the Oval Office side by side.

 

**End.**

* * *


End file.
